LIBRARY 
Untwnity  of  California 

IRVINE. 


THE  LffiRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

GIFT  OF 
Chester  C.   Davis 


THE  UNDER  DOG 


During  the  trip  he  sat  in  the  far  corner  of  the  car. 


THE 
UNDER   DOG 


y 

F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 


ILLUSTRATED 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK:::::::::::::::::::::1911 


COPYRIGHT.  1903,  BT 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


To  my  Readers: 

In  the  strife  of  life  some  men  lose  place  through 
physical  weakness  or  lost  opportunities  or  impaired 
abilities;  struggle  on  as  they  may,  they  must  always 
be  the  Under  Dog  in  the  fight. 

Others  are  misjudged — often  by  their  fellows;  some 
times  by  the  law.  If  you  are  one  of  the  fellows,  you 
pass  the  man  with  a  nod.  If  you  are  the  law,  you 
crush  out  his  life  with  a  sentence. 

Still  others  lose  place  from  being  misunderstood; 
from  being  out  of  touch  with  their  surroundings; 
out  of  reach  of  those  who,  if  they  knew,  would  help; 
men  with  hearts  chilled  by  neglect,  whose  smoulder 
ing  coals — coals  deep  hidden  in  their  nature — need 
only  the  warm  breath  of  some  other  man's  sympathy 
to  be  fanned  back  into  life. 

Once  in  a  while  there  can  be  met  another  kind, 
one  whose  poverty  or  uncouthness  makes  us  shun 
him  at  sight;  and  yet  one,  if  we  did  but  know  it,  with 
a  joyous  melody  in  his  heart,  ofttimes  in  tune  with 
our  own  harmonies.  This  kind  is  rare,  and  when 
found  adds  another  ripple  to  our  scanty  stock  of 
laughter. 

v 


TO  MY  READERS 

These  Under  Dogs — grave  and  gay — have  always 
appealed  to  me.  Their  stories  are  printed  here  in 
the  hope  that  they  may  also  appeal  to  you. 

F.  H.  S. 

NEW  YORK. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

No  Respecter  of  Persons    ......       1 

7.  The  Crime  of  Samanthy  North    .       3 

II.  Bud  Tilden,  Mail- Thief      ...     29 

777.  "Eleven  Months  and  Ten  Days"  .     57 

Cap'n  Bob  of  the  Screamer 77 

A  Procession  of  Umbrellas 99 

"Doc"  Shipman's  Fee 129 

Plain  Fin — Paper-Hanger 151 

Long  Jim 179 

Compartment  Number  Four — Cologne 

to  Paris 215 

Sammy 239 

Marny's  Shadow 265 

Muffles— The  Bar-Keep 293 

His  Last  Cent  .  315 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

During  the  trip  he  sat  in  the  far  corner  of  the  car 

Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


"7  threw  him  in  the  bushes  and  got  the  letter"  ....  54 

"I  git  so  tired,  so  tired;  please  let  me  go" 70 

I  saw  the  point  of  a  tiny  shoe 112 

Everybody  was  excited  and  everybody  was  mad  ....  226 

I  hardly  knew  him,  he  was  so  changed 258 


NO  RESPECTER  OF  PERSONS 


THE   CRIME   OF 
SAMANTHY   NORTH 

I  have  been  requested  to  tell  this  story,  and  ex 
actly  as  it  happened.  The  moral  any  man  may 
draw  for  himself.  I  only  want  to  ask  my  readers 
the  question  I  have  been  asking  myself  ever  since 
I  saw  the  girl :  Why  should  such  things  be  among 
us? 

Marny's  studio  is  over  the  Art  Club. 

He  was  at  work  on  a  picture  of  a  canon  with 
some  Sioux  Indians  in  the  foreground,  while  I 
sat  beside  him,  watching  the  play  of  his  masterly 
brush. 

Dear  old  Aunt  Chloe,  in  white  apron  and  red 
bandanna,  her  round  black  face  dimpled  with 
smiles,  was  busying  herself  about  the  room, 
straightening  the  rugs,  puffing  up  the  cushions 
of  the  divan,  pushing  back  the  easels  to  get  at 
the  burnt  ends  of  abandoned  cigarettes,  doing  her 
best,  indeed,  to  bring  some  kind  of  domestic  order 
out  of  Marny's  Bohemian  chaos. 

Now  and  then  she  interpolated  her  efforts  with 
such  remarks  as: 

3 


THE    UNDER   DOG 

"No,  doan'  move.  De  Colonel" — her  sobriquet 
for  Marny — "doan'  keer  whar  he  drap  his  see- 
gars.  But  doan'  you  move,  honey" — sobriquet 
for  me.  "I  kin  git  'em."  Or  "Clar  to  goodness, 
you  pillows  look  like  a  passel  o'  hogs  done  tromple 
ye,  yo're  dat  mussed."  Critical  remarks  like 
these  last  were  given  in  a  low  tone,  and,  although 
addressed  to  the  offending  articles  themselves, 
accompanied  by  sundry  cuffs  of  her  big  hand, 
were  really  intended  to  convey  Aunt  Chloe's  pri 
vate  opinion  of  the  habits  of  her  master  and  his 
friends. 

The  talk  had  drifted  from  men  of  the  old 
frontier  to  border  scouts,  and  then  to  the  Ken 
tucky  mountaineers,  whom  Marny  knows  as  thor 
oughly  as  he  does  the  red  men. 

"They  are  a  great  race,  these  mountaineers," 
he  said  to  me,  as  he  tossed  the  end  of  another 
cigarette  on  Aunt  Chloe's  now  clean-swept  floor. 
Marny  spoke  in  crisp,  detached  sentences  between 
the  pats  of  his  brush.  "Big,  strong,  whalebone- 
and-steel  kind  of  fellows;  rather  fight  than  eat. 
Quick  as  lightning  with  a  gun ;  dead  shots.  Built 
just  like  our  border  men.  See  that  scout  astride 
of  his  horse?" — and  he  pointed  with  his  mahl- 
stick  to  a  sketch  on  the  wall  behind  him — "looks 
like  the  real  thing,  don't  he  ?  Well,  I  painted  him 
from  an  up-country  moonshiner.  Found  him  one 
morning  across  the  river,  leaning  up  against  a 
telegraph  pole,  dead  broke.  Been  arrested  on  a 

4 


THE    CHIME    OF    SAMANTHY   NOKTH 

false  charge  of  making  whiskey  without  a  license, 
and  had  just  been  discharged  from  the  jail. 
Hadn't  money  enough  to  cross  the  bridge,  and 
was  half-starved.  So  I  braced  him  up  a  little, 
and  brought  him  here  and  painted  him." 

We  all  know  with  what  heartiness  Marny  can 
"brace."  It  doubtless  took  three  cups  of  coffee, 
half  a  ham,  and  a  loaf  of  bread  to  get  him  on  his 
feet,  Marny  watching  him  with  the  utmost  sat 
isfaction  until  the  process  was  complete. 

"You  ought  to  look  these  fellows  over;  they're 
worth  it.  Savage  lot,  some  of  'em.  Remind  me 
of  the  people  who  live  about  the  foothills  of  the 
Balkans.  Mountaineers  are  the  same  the  world 
over,  anyway.  But  you  don't  want  to  hunt  for 
these  Kentuckians  in  their  own  homes  unless  you 
send  word  you  are  coming,  or  you  may  run  up 
against  the  end  of  a  rifle  before  you  know  it.  I 
don't  blame  them."  Marny  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  and  turned  toward  me.  "The  Government 
is  always  hunting  them  as  if  they  were  wild  beasts, 
instead  of  treating  them  as  human  beings.  They 
can't  understand  why  they  shouldn't  get  the  best 
prices  they  can  for  their  corn.  They  work  hard 
enough  to  get  it  to  grow.  Their  theory  is  that 
the  Illinois  farmer  feeds  the  corn  to  his  hogs 
and  sells  the  product  as  pork,  while  the  moun 
taineer  feeds  it  to  his  still  and  sells  the  product 
to  his  neighbors  as  whiskey.  That  a  lot  of  Con 
gressmen  who  never  hoed  a  row  of  corn  in  their 

5 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

lives,  nor  ran  a  furrow,  or  knew  what  it  was  to 
starve  on  the  proceeds,  should  make  laws  send 
ing  a  man  to  jail  because  he  wants  to  supply  his 
friends  with  liquor,  is  what  riles  them,  and  I  don't 
blame  them  for  that,  either." 

I  arose  from  my  chair  and  examined  the  sketch 
of  the  starving  mountaineer.  It  was  a  careful 
study  of  a  man  with  clear-cut  features,  slim  and 
of  wiry  build,  and  was  painted  with  that  mastery 
of  detail  which  distinguishes  Marny's  work  over 
that  of  every  other  figure-painter  of  his  time. 

The  painter  squeezed  a  tube  of  white  on  his 
palette,  relit  his  cigarette,  fumbled  over  his  sheaf 
of  brushes  and  continued: 

"The  first  of  every  month — just  about  now,  by 
the  way — they  bring  twenty  or  thirty  of  these 
poor  devils  down  from  the  mountains  and  lock 
them  up  in  Covington  jail.  They  pass  Aunt 
Chloe's  house.  Oh,  Aunt  Chloe !" — and  he  turned 
to  the  old  woman — "did  you  see  any  of  those 
'wild  people'  the  last  two  or  three  days? — that's 
what  she  calls  'em,"  and  he  laughed. 

"Dat  I  did,  Colonel — hull  drove  on  'em. 
'Nough  to  make  a  body  sick  to  see  'em.  Two  on 
'em  was  chained  together.  Dat  ain't  no  way  to 
treat  people,  if  dey  is  ornery.  I  wouldn't  treat 
a  dog  dat  way." 

Aunt  Chloe,  sole  dependence  of  the  Art  Club 
below-stairs :  day  or  night  nurse — every  student 
in  the  place  knows  the  touch  of  her  hand  when 

6 


THE    CRIME    OF    SAMANTHY    NORTH 

his  head  splits  with  fever  or  his  bones  ache  with 
cold;  provider  of  buttons,  suspender  loops  and 
buckles;  go-between  in  most  secret  and  confi 
dential  affairs;  mail-carrier — the  dainty  note 
wrapped  up  in  her  handkerchief  so  as  not  to 
"spile  it!" — no,  she  wouldn't  treat  a  dog  that 
way,  nor  anything  else  that  lives  and  breathes  or 
has  feeling,  human  or  brute. 

"If  there's  a  new  'drove'  of  them,  as  Aunt 
Chloe  says,"  remarked  Marny,  tossing  aside  his 
brushes,  "let's  take  a  look  at  them.  They  are 
worth  your  study.  You  may  never  have  another 
chance." 

This  was  why  it  happened  that  within  the  hour 
Marny  and  I  crossed  the  bridge  and  left  his 
studio  and  the  city  behind  us. 

The  river  below  was  alive  with  boats,  the  clouds 
of  steam  from  their  funnels  wreathed  about  the 
spans.  Street-cars  blocked  the  roadway;  tugging 
horses,  sweating  under  the  lash  of  their  drivers' 
whips,  strained  under  heavy  loads.  The  air  was 
heavy  with  coal-smoke.  Through  the  gloom  of 
the  haze,  close  to  the  opposite  bank,  rose  a  grim, 
square  building  of  granite  and  brick,  its  grimy 
windows  blinking  through  iron  bars.  Behind 
these,  shut  out  from  summer  clouds  and  winter 
snows,  bereft  of  air  and  sunshine,  deaf  to  the 
song  of  happy  birds  and  the  low  hum  of  wander 
ing  bees,  languished  the  outcast  and  the  innocent, 
the  vicious  and  the  cruel.  Hells  like  these  are 

7 


THE  UNDER  DOG 

the  infernos  civilization  builds  in  which  to  hide 
its  mistakes. 

Marny  turned  toward  me  as  we  reached  the 
prison.  "Keep  close,"  he  whispered.  "I  know 
the  Warden  and  can  get  in  without  a  permit," 
and  he  mounted  the  steps  and  entered  a  big  door 
opening  into  a  cold,  bare  hall  with  a  sanded  floor. 
To  the  right  of  the  hall  swung  another  door  la 
belled  "Chief  of  Police."  Behind  this  door  was 
a  high  railing  closed  with  a  wooden  gate.  Over 
this  scowled  an  officer  in  uniform. 

"My  friend  Sergeant  Cram,"  said  Marny,  as 
he  introduced  us.  The  officer  and  I  shook  hands. 
The  hand  was  thick  and  hard,  the  knotted  knuckles 
leaving  an  unpleasant  impression  behind  them  as 
they  fell  from  my  fingers. 

A  second  door  immediately  behind  this  one  was 
now  reached,  the  Sergeant  acting  as  guide.  This 
door  was  of  solid  wood,  with  a  square  panel  cut 
from  its  centre,  the  opening  barred  like  a  bird 
cage.  Peering  through  these  bars  was  the  face 
of  another  attendant.  This  third  door,  at  a  mum 
bled  word  from  the  Sergeant,  was  opened  wide 
enough  to  admit  us  into  a  room  in  which  half  a 
dozen  deputies  were  seated  at  cards.  In  the  op 
posite  wall  hung  a  fourth  door,  of  steel  and  heavily 
barred,  through  which,  level  with  the  eyes,  was 
cut  a  peep-hole  concealed  by  a  swinging  steel 
disk. 

The  Sergeant  moved  rapidly  across  the  room, 
8 


THE    CHIME    OF    SAMANTHY   NORTH 

pushed  aside  the  disk  and  brought  to  view  the 
nose  and  eyes  of  a  prison  guard. 

As  our  guide  shot  back  a  bolt,  a  click  like  the 
cocking  of  a  gun  sounded  through  the  room,  fol 
lowed  by  the  jangle  of  a  huge  iron  ring  strung 
with  keys.  Selecting  one  from  the  number,  he 
pushed  it  into  the  key-hole  and  threw  his  weight 
against  the  door.  At  its  touch  the  mass  of  steel 
swung  inward  noiselessly  as  the  door  of  a  bank- 
vault.  With  the  swinging  of  the  door  there 
reached  us  the  hot,  stuffy  smell  of  unwashed 
bodies  under  steam-heat — the  unmistakable  odor 
that  one  sometimes  meets  in  a  court-room. 

Marny  and  I  stepped  inside.  The  Sergeant 
closed  the  slab  of  steel,  locking  us  inside,  and  then, 
nodding  to  us  through  the  peep-hole,  returned  to 
his  post  in  the  office. 

We  stood  now  on  the  rim  of  the  crater,  looking 
straight  into  the  inferno.  By  means  of  the  dull 
light  that  struggled  through  the  grimy,  grated 
windows,  I  discovered  that  we  were  in  a  corridor 
having  an  iron  floor  that  sprang  up  and  down 
under  our  feet.  This  was  flanked  by  a  line  of 
steel  cages — huge  beast-dens  really — reaching  to 
the  ceiling.  In  each  of  these  cages  was  a  small, 
double-barred  gate. 

These  dens  were  filled  with  men  and  boys ; 
some  with  faces  thrust  through  the  bars,  some  with 
hands  and  arms  stretched  out  as  if  for  air;  one 
hung  half-way  up  the  bars,  clinging  with  hands 

9 


THE    UNDER   DOG 

and  feet  apart,  as  if  to  get  a  better  hold  and  better 
view.  I  had  seen  dens  like  these  before :  the  man- 
eating  Bengal  tiger  at  the  London  Zoo  lives  in 
one  of  them. 

The  Warden,  who  was  standing  immediately 
behind  the  attendant,  stepped  forward  and  shook 
Marny's  hand.  I  discharged  my  obligations  with 
a  nod.  I  had  never  been  in  a  place  like  this 
before,  and  the  horror  of  its  surroundings  over 
came  me.  I  misjudged  the  Warden,  no  doubt. 
That  this  man  might  have  a  wife  who  loved  him 
and  little  children  who  clung  to  his  neck,  and 
that  underneath  his  hard,  forbidding  exterior  a 
heart  could  beat  with  any  tenderness,  never  oc 
curred  to  me.  As  I  looked  him  over  with  a  half- 
shrinking  glance,  I  became  aware  of  a  slash  in 
denting  his  pock-marked  cheek  that  might  have 
been  made  by  a  sabre  cut — was,  probably,  for  it 
takes  a  brave  man  to  be  a  warden ;  a  massive  head 
set  on  big  shoulders ;  a  square  chin,  the  jaw  hinged 
like  a  burglar's  jimmy;  and  two  keen,  restless, 
elephant  eyes. 

But  it  was  his  right  ear  that  absorbed  my  at 
tention — or  rather,  what  was  left  of  his  right  ear. 
Only  the  point  of  it  stuck  up ;  the  rest  was  clipped 
as  clean  as  a  rat-terrier's.  Some  fight  to  a  finish, 
I  thought;  some  quick  upper-cut  of  the  razor  of 
a  frenzied  negro  writhing  under  the  viselike  grasp 
of  this  man-gorilla  with  arms  and  hands  of  steel; 
or  some  sudden  whirl  of  a  stiletto,  perhaps,  which 

10 


THE    CRIME    OF    SAMANTHY   NORTH 

had  missed  his  heart  and  taken  his  ear.  I  did 
not  ask  then,  and  I  do  not  know  now.  It  was  a 
badge  of  courage,  whatever  it  was — a  badge  which 
thrilled  and  horrified  me.  As  I  looked  at  the 
terrible  mutilation,  I  could  but  recall  the  hideous 
fascination  that  overcame  Josiane,  the  heroine  of 
Hugo's  great  novel,  "The  Man  Who  Laughs," 
when  she  first  caught  sight  of  Gwynplaine's  mouth 
— slit  from  ear  to  ear  by  the  Comprachicos.  The 
outrage  on  the  Warden  was  not  so  grotesque,  but 
the  effect  was  the  same. 

I  moved  along  the  corridor  and  stood  before 
the  beasts.  One,  an  old  man  in  a  long  white 
beard,  leathery,  sun-tanned  face  and  hooked  nose, 
clasped  the  bars  with  both  hands,  gazing  at  us 
intently.  I  recognized  his  kind  the  moment  I 
looked  at  him.  He  was  like  my  Jonathan  Gor 
don,  my  old  fisherman  who  lived  up  in  the  Fran- 
conia  Notch.  His  coarse,  homespun  clothes,  dyed 
brown  with  walnut-shells,  slouch  hat  crowning 
his  shock  of  gray  hair,  and  hickory  shirt  open  at 
the  throat,  only  heightened  the  resemblance;  es 
pecially  the  hat  canted  over  one  eye.  Why  he 
wore  the  hat  in  such  a  place  I  could  not  under 
stand,  unless  to  be  ready  for  departure  when  his 
summons  came. 

There  were  eight  other  beasts  besides  this  old 
man  in  the  same  cage,  one  a  boy  of  twenty,  who 
leaned  against  the  iron  wall  with  his  hands  in. 
his  pockets,  his  eyes  following  my  every  move- 

11 


THE    UNDER   DOG 

merit.  I  noticed  a  new  blue  patch  on  one  of  his 
knees,  which  his  mother,  doubtless,  had  sewn  with 
her  own  hands,  her  big-rimmed  spectacles  on  her 
nose,  the  tallow  dip  lighting  the  log  cabin.  I 
recognized  the  touch.  And  the  boy.  I  used  to 
go  swimming  with  one  just  like  him,  forty  years 
ago,  in  an  old  swimming-hole  in  the  back  pasture, 
and  hunt  for  honey  that  the  bumblebees  had  stored 
under  the  bank. 

The  old  man  with  the  beard  and  the  canting 
hat  looked  into  my  eyes  keenly,  but  he  did  not 
speak.  He  had  nothing  to  say,  perhaps.  Some 
thing  human  had  moved  before  him,  that  was  all ; 
something  that  could  come  and  go  at  its  pleasure 
and  break  the  monotony  of  endless  hours. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here  ?"  I  asked,  low 
ering  my  voice  and  stepping  closer  to  the  bars. 

Somehow  I  did  not  want  the  others  to  hear. 
It  was  almost  as  though  I  were  talking  to  Jona 
than — my  dear  Jonathan — and  he  behind  bars ! 

"Eleven  months  and  three  days.  Reckon  I  be 
the  oldest" — and  he  looked  about  him  as  if  for 
confirmation.  "Yes,  reckon  I  be." 

"What  for?" 

"SellinV 

The  answer  came  without  the  slightest  hesita 
tion  and  without  the  slightest  trace  in  his  voice 
of  anything  that  betokened  either  sorrow  for  his 
act  or  shame  for  the  crime. 

"Eleven  months  and  three  days  of  this !"  I  re- 
12 


THE    CKIME    OF    SAMANTHY   NORTH 

peated  to  myself.  Instinctively  my  mind  went 
back  to  all  I  had  done,  seen,  and  enjoyed  in  these 
eleven  months  and  three  days.  Certain  individual 
incidents  more  delightful  than  others  stood  out 
clear  and  distinct:  that  day  under  the  trees  at 
Cookham,  the  Thames  slipping  past,  the  white- 
sailed  clouds  above  my  tent  of  leaves ;  a  morning 
at  Dort,  when  Peter  and  I  watched  the  Dutch  lug 
gers  anchor  off  the  quay,  and  the  big  storm  came 
up;  a  night  beyond  San  Giorgio,  when  Luigi 
steered  the  gondola  in  mid-air  over  a  sea  of  mir 
rored  stars  and  beneath  a  million  incandescent 
lamps. 

I  passed  on  to  the  next  cage,  Marny  watching 
me  but  saying  nothing.  The  scout  was  in  this 
one,  the  "type"  in  Marny's  sketch.  There  were 
three  of  them — tall,  hickory-sapling  sort  of  young 
fellows,  with  straight  legs,  flat  stomachs,  and  thin 
necks,  like  that  of  a  race-horse.  One  had  the  look 
of  an  eagle,  with  his  beak-nose  and  deep-set,  un- 
cowed  eyes.  Another  wore  his  yellow  hair  long 
on  his  neck,  Ouster-fashion.  The  third  sat  on 
the  iron  floor,  his  knees  level  with  his  chin,  his 
head  in  his  hand.  He  had  a  sweetheart,  perhaps, 
who  loved  him,,  or  an  old  mother  who  was  wring 
ing  her  hands  at  home.  This  one,  I  learned  after 
ward,  had  come  with  the  last  batch  and  was  not 
yet  accustomed  to  his  surroundings;  the  others 
had  been  awaiting  trial  for  months.  All  of  them 
wore  homespun  clothes — not  the  ready-made 

13 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

clothes  sold  at  the  stores,  but  those  that  some 
woman  at  home  had  cut,  basted,  and  sewn. 

Marny  asked  them  what  they  were  up  for. 
Their  answers  differed  slightly  from  that  of  the 
old  man,  but  the  crime  and  its  penalty  were  the 
same. 

"Makin',"  they  severally  replied. 

There  was  no  lowering  of  the  eyelids  when  they 
confessed;  no  hangdog  look  about  the  mouth. 
They  would  do  it  again  when  they  got  out,  and 
they  intended  to,  only  they  would  shoot  the  quicker 
next  time.  The  earth  was  theirs  and  the  fulness 
thereof,  that  part  of  it  which  they  owned.  Their 
grandfathers  before  them  had  turned  their  corn 
into  whiskey  and  no  man  had  said  nay,  and  so 
would  they.  Not  the  corn  that  they  had  stolen, 
but  the  corn  that  they  had  ploughed  and  shucked. 
It  was  their  corn,  not  the  Government's.  Men 
who  live  in  the  wilderness,  and  feed  and  clothe 
themselves  on  the  things  they  raise  with  their  own 
hands,  have  no  fine-spun  theories  about  the  laws 
that  provide  revenue  for  a  Government  they  never 
saw,  don't  want  to  see,  and  couldn't  understand 
if  they  did. 

Marny  and  I  stood  before  the  grating,  looking 
each  man  over  separately.  Strange  to  say,  the 
artistic  possibilities  of  my  visit  faded  out  of  my 
mind.  The  picturesqueness  of  their  attire,  the 
browns  and  grays  accentuated  here  and  there  by 
a  dash  of  red  around  a  hat-band  or  shirt-collar — all 

14 


THE    CRIME    OF    SAMANTHY    NORTH 

material  for  my  own  or  my  friend's  brush — made 
not  the  slightest  impression  upon  me.  It  was  the 
close  smell,  the  dim,  horrible  light,  the  quick 
gleam  of  a  pair  of  eyes  looking  out  from  under 
shocks  of  matted  hair — the  eyes  of  a  panther 
watching  his  prey;  the  dull  stare  of  some  boyish 
face  with  all  hope  crushed  out  of  it;  these  were 
the  things  that  possessed  me. 

As  I  stood  there  absorbed  in  the  terrors  before 
me,  I  was  startled  by  the  click  of  the  catch  and 
the  clink  of  keys,  followed  by  the  noiseless  swing 
of  the  steel  door  as  it  closed  again. 

I  turned  and  looked  down  the  corridor. 

Into  the  gloom  of  this  inferno,  this  foul-smell 
ing  cavern,  this  assemblage  of  beasts,  stepped  a 
girl  of  twenty.  A  baby  wrapped  about  with  a 
coarse  shawl  lay  in  her  arms. 

She  passed  me  with  eyes  averted,  and  stood 
before  the  gate  of  the  last  steel  cage — the  woman's 
end  of  the  prison — the  turnkey  following  slowly. 
Cries  of  "Howdy,  gal!  What  did  ye  git?"  were 
hurled  after  her,  but  she  made  no  answer.  The 
ominous  sound  of  drawn  bolts  and  the  click  of 
a  key,  and  the  girl  and  baby  were  inside  the  bars 
of  the  cage.  These  bars,  foreshortened  from  where 
I  stood,  looked  like  a  row  of  gun-barrels  in  an 
armory  rack. 

"That  girl  a  prisoner?"  I  asked  the  Warden. 

I  didn't  believe  it.  I  knew,  of  course,  that  it 
couldn't  be.  I  instantly  divined  that  she  had 

15 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

come  to  comfort  some  brother  or  father,  or  lover, 
perhaps,  and  had  brought  the  baby  with  her  be 
cause  there  was  no  place  to  leave  it  at  home.  I 
only  asked  the  question  of  the  Warden  so  he  could 
deny  it,  and  deny  it,  too,  with  some  show  of  feel 
ing — this  man  with  the  sliced  ear  and  the  gorilla 
hands. 

"Yes,  she's  been  here  some  time.  Judge  sus 
pended  sentence  a  while  ago.  She's  gone  after 
her  things." 

There  was  no  joy  over  her  release  in  his  tones, 
nor  pity  for  her  condition. 

He  spoke  exactly,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  he  would 
have  done  had  he  been  in  charge  of  the  iron- 
barred  gate  of  the  Colosseum  two  thousand  years 
ago.  All  that  had  saved  the  girl  then  from  the 
jaws  of  his  hungriest  lion  was  the  twist  of  Nero's 
thumb.  All  that  saved  her  now  was  the  nod  of 
the  Judge's  head — both  had  the  giving  of  life  and 
death. 

A  thin  mist  swam  before  my  eyes,  and  a  great 
lump  started  from  my  heart  and  stuck  fast  in 
my  throat,  but  I  did  not  answer  him;  it  would 
have  done  no  good — might  have  enraged  him,  in 
fact.  I  walked  straight  to  the  gate  through  which 
she  had  entered  and  peered  in.  I  could  see  be 
tween  the  gun-barrels  now. 

It  was  like  the  other  cages,  with  barred  walls 
and  sheet-iron  floors.  Built  in  one  corner  of  the 
far  end  was  a  strong  box  of  steel,  six  feet  by  four 

16 


THE    CEIME    OF    SAMANTHY   NORTH 

by  the  height  of  the  ceiling,  fitted  with  a  low 
door.  This  box  was  lined  with  a  row  of  bunks, 
one  above  the  other.  From  one  was  thrust  a  small 
foot  covered  with  a  stocking  and  part  of  a  skirt; 
some  woman  prisoner  was  ill,  perhaps.  Against 
the  wall  of  this  main  cage  sat  two  negro  women ; 
one,  I  learned  afterward,  had  stabbed  a  man  the 
week  before;  the  other  was  charged  with  theft. 
The  older — the  murderess — came  forward  when 
she  caught  sight  of  me,  thrust  out  her  hands  be 
tween  the  bars,  and  begged  for  tobacco. 

In  the  corner  of  the  same  cage  was  another  steel 
box.  I  saw  the  stooping  figure  of  the  young  girl 
come  out  of  it  as  a  dog  comes  out  of  a  kennel. 
She  walked  toward  the  centre  of  the  cage — she 
still  had  the  baby  in  her  arms — laid  the  child 
on  the  sheet-iron  floor,  where  the  light  from  the 
grimy  windows  fell  the  clearer,  and  returned  to 
the  steel  box.  The  child  wore  but  one  garment 
— a  short  red-flannel  shirt  that  held  the  stomach 
tight  and  left  the  shrivelled  legs  and  arms  bare. 
It  lay  flat  on  its  back,  its  eyes  gazing  up  at  the 
ceiling,  its  pinched  face  in  high  light  against  the 
dull  background.  Now  and  then  it  would  fight 
the  air  with  its  little  fists  or  kick  its  toes  above 
its  head. 

The  girl  took  from  the  kennel  a  broken  paper 
box  and,  returning  with  it,  knelt  beside  the  child 
and  began  arranging  its  wardrobe,  the  two  ne- 
gresses  watching  her  listlessly.  Not  much  of  a 

17 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

wardrobe — only  a  ragged  shawl,  some  socks,  a 
worsted  cap,  a  pair  of  tiny  shoes,  and  a  Canton- 
flannel  wrapper,  once  white.  This  last  had  little 
arms  and  a  short  waist.  The  skirt  was  long 
enough  to  tuck  around  her  baby's  feet  when  she 
carried  it. 

I  steadied  myself  by  one  of  the  musket-barrels, 
watched  her  while  she  folded  the  few  pitiful  gar 
ments,  waited  until  she  had  guided  the  shrunken 
arms  into  the  sleeves  of  the  soiled  wrapper  and 
had  buttoned  it  over  the  baby's  chest.  Then,  when 
the  lump  in  my  throat  was  about  to  stop  my 
breathing,  I  said: 

"Will  you  come  here,  please,  to  the  grating? 
I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

She  raised  her  head  slowly,  looked  at  me  in  a 
tired,  hopeless  way,  laid  her  baby  back  on  the 
sheet-iron  floor,  and  walked  toward  me.  As  she 
came  into  the  glow  of  the  overhead  light,  I  saw 
that  she  was  even  younger  than  I  had  first  sup 
posed — nearer  seventeen  than  twenty — a  girl  with 
something  of  the  curious  look  of  a  young  heifer 
in  a  face  drawn  and  lined  but  with  anxiety. 
Parted  over  a  low  forehead,  and  tucked  behind 
her  ears,  streamed  two  braids  of  straight  yellow 
hair  in  two  unkempt  strands  over  her  shoulders. 
Across  her  bosom  and  about  her  slender  figure 
was  hooked  a  yellow-brown  dress  made  in  one 
piece.  The  hooks  and  eyes  showed  wherever  the 
strain  came,  disclosing  the  coarse  chemise  and  the 

18 


THE    CKIME    OF    SAMANTHY   NORTH 

brown  of  the  neck  beneath.  This  strain,  the  strain 
of  an  ill-fitting  garment,  accentuated  all  the 
clearer,  in  the  wrinkles  about  the  shoulders  and 
around  the  hips;  the  fulness  of  her  delicately 
modelled  lines;  quite  as  would  a  jacket  buttoned 
over  the  Milo.  On  the  third  finger  of  one  hand 
was  a  flat  silver  ring,  such  as  is  sold  by  the  country 
pedlers. 

She  stood  quite  close  to  the  bars,  patiently  await 
ing  my  next  question.  She  had  obeyed  my  sum 
mons  like  a  dog  who  remembered  a  former  dis 
cipline.  ~No  curiosity,  not  the  slightest  interest; 
nothing  but  blind  obedience.  The  tightened  grasp 
of  these  four  walls  had  taught  her  this. 

"Where  do  you  come  from  ?"  I  asked. 

I  had  to  begin  in  some  way. 

"From  Pineyville."  The  voice  was  that  of  a 
child,  with  a  hard,  dry  note  in  it. 

"How  old  is  the  baby?" 

"Three  months  and  ten  days."  She  had  counted 
the  child's  age.  She  had  thought  enough  for 
that. 

"How  far  is  Pineyville?" 

"I  doan'  know.  It  took  mos'  all  night  to  git 
here."  There  was  no  change  in  the  listless 
monotone. 

"Are  you  going  out  now?" 

"Yes,  soon's  I  kin  git  ready." 

"How  are  you  going  to  get  home?" 

"Walk,  I  reckon."  There  was  no  complaint  in 
19 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

her  tone,  no  sudden  exhibition  of  any  suffering. 
She  was  only  stating  facts. 

"Have  you  no  money  ?" 

"No."  Same  bald  statement,  and  in  the  same 
hopeless  tone.  She  had  not  moved — not  even  to 
look  at  the  child. 

"What's  the  fare?" 

"Six  dollars  and  sixty-five  cents."  This  was 
stated  with  great  exactness.  It  was  the  amount 
of  this  appalling  sum  that  had,  no  doubt,  crushed 
out  her  last  ray  of  hope. 

"Did  you  sell  any  whiskey  ?" 

"Yes,  I  to?  the  Judge  so."  Still  no  break  in 
her  voice.  It  was  only  another  statement. 

"Oh!  you  kept  a  saloon?" 

"No." 

"How  did  you  sell  it,  then?" 

"Jest  out  of  a  kag — in  a  cup." 

"Had  you  ever  sold  any  before  ?" 

"No." 

"Why  did  you  sell  it,  then  ?" 

She  had  been  looking  into  my  face  all  this  time, 
one  thin,  begrimed  hand — the  one  with  the  ring 
on  it — tight  around  the  steel  bar  of  the  gate  that 
divided  us.  With  the  question,  her  eyes  dropped 
until  they  seemed  to  rest  on  this  hand.  The  an 
swer  came  slowly: 

"The  baby  come,  and  the  store  wouldn't  chalk 
nothin'  for  us  no  more."  Then  she  added,  quickly, 
as  if  in  defence  of  the  humiliating  position,  "Our 

20 


THE    CEIME    OF    SAMANTHY    NORTH 

corn-crib  was  sot  afire  last  fall  and  we  got  be 
hind." 

For  a  brief  instant  she  leaned  heavily  against 
the  bars  as  if  for  support,  then  her  eyes  sought 
her  child.  I  waited  until  she  had  reassured  her 
self  of  its  safety,  and  continued  my  questions, 
my  finger-nails  sinking  deeper  all  the  time  into 
the  palms  of  my  hands. 

"Did  you  make  the  whiskey  ?" 

"!Nb,  it  was  Martin  Young's  whiskey.  My  hus 
band  works  for  him.  Martin  sent  the  kag  down 
one  day,  and  I  sold  it  to  the  men.  I  give  the 
money  all  to  Martin  'cept  the  dollar  he  was  to 
gimme  for  sellin'  it." 

"How  came  you  to  be  arrested?" 

"One  o'  the  men  tol'  on  me  'cause  I  wouldn't 
trust  him.  Martin  toF  me  not  to  let  'em  have  it 
'thout  they  paid." 

"How  long  have  you  been  here  ?" 

"Three  months  next  Tuesday." 

"That  baby  only  two  weeks  old  when  they  ar 
rested  you  ?"  My  blood  ran  hot  and  cold,  and 
my  collar  seemed  five  sizes  too  small,  but  I  still 
held  on  to  myself. 

"Yes."  The  answer  was  given  in  the  same 
monotonous,  listless  voice — not  a  trace  of  indig 
nation  over  the  outrage.  Women  with  suckling 
babies  had  no  rights  that  anybody  was  bound  to 
respect — not  up  in  Pineyville ;  certainly  not  the 
gentlemen  with  brass  shields  under  the  lapels  of 

21 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

their  coats  and  Uncle  Sam's  commissions  in  their 
pockets.  It  was  the  law  of  the  land — why  find 
fault  with  it  ? 

I  leaned  closer  so  that  I  could  touch  her  hand 
if  need  be. 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Samanthy  North." 

"What's  your  husband's  name?" 

"His  name's  North."  There  was  a  trace  of  sur 
prise  now  in  the  general  monotone.  Then  she 
added,  as  if  to  leave  no  doubt  in  my  mind,  "Les 
lie  North." 

"Where  is  he?"  I  determined  now  to  round 
up  every  fact. 

"He's  home.  We've  got  another  child,  and  he's 
takin'  care  of  it  till  I  git  back.  He'd  be  to  the 
railroad  for  me  if  he  knowed  I  was  coming;  but 
I  couldn't  tell  him  when  to  start  'cause  I  didn't 
know  how  long  they'd  keep  me." 

"Is  your  home  near  the  railroad?" 

"No,  it's  thirty-six  miles  furder." 

"How  will  you  get  from  the  railroad?" 

"Ain't  no  way  'cept  walkin'." 

I  had  it  now,  the  whole  damnable,  pitiful  story, 
every  fact  clear-cut  to  the  bone.  I  could  see  it 
all:  the  look  of  terror  when  the  deputy  woke  her 
from  her  sleep  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her;  the 
parting  with  the  other  child;  the  fright  of  the 
helpless  husband;  the  midnight  ride,  she  hardly 
able  to  stand,  the  pitiful  scrap  of  her  own  flesh 

22 


THE    CEIME    OF    SAMAOTHY   NORTH 

and  blood  tight  in  her  arms;  the  procession  to 
the  jail,  the  men  in  front  chained  together,  she 
bringing  up  the  rear,  walking  beside  the  last 
guard;  the  first  horrible  night  in  jail,  the  walls 
falling  upon  her,  the  darkness  overwhelming  her, 
the  puny  infant  resting  on  her  breast ;  the  staring, 
brutal  faces  when  the  dawn  came,  followed  by  the 
coarse  jest.  No  wonder  that  she  hung  limp  and 
hopeless  to  the  bars  of  her  cage,  all  the  spring 
and  buoyancy,  all  the  youth  and  lightness,  crushed 
out  of  her. 

I  put  my  hand  through  the  bars  and  laid  it  on 
her  wrist. 

"No,  you  won't  walk;  not  if  I  can  help  it." 
This  outburst  got  past  the  lump  slowly,  one  word 
at  a  time,  each  syllable  exploding  hot  like  balls 
from  a  Roman  candle.  "You  get  your  things  to 
gether  quick  as  you  can,  and  wait  here  until  I 
come  back/'  and  I  turned  abruptly  and  motioned 
to  the  turnkey  to  open  the  gate. 

In  the  office  of  the  Chief  of  Police  outside  I 
found  Mamy  talking  to  Sergeant  Cram.  He  was 
waiting  until  I  finished.  It  was  all  an  old  story 
with  Marny — every  month  a  new  batch  came  to 
Covington  jail. 

"What  about  that  girl,  Sergeant — the  one  with 
the  baby  ?"  I  demanded,  in  a  tone  that  made  them 
both  turn  quickly. 

"Oh,  she's  all  right.  She  told  the  Judge  a 
straight  story  this  morning,  and  he  let  her  go  on. 

23 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

'spended  sentence.  They  tried  to  make  her  plead 
'Not  guilty/  but  she  wouldn't  lie  about  it,  she  said. 
She  can  go  when  she  gets  ready.  What  are  you 
drivin'  at?  Are  you  goin'  to  put  up  for  her?" 
— and  a  curious  look  overspread  his  face. 

"I'm  going  to  get  her  a  ticket  and  give  her  some 
money  to  get  home.  Locking  up  a  seventeen-year- 
old  girl,  two  hundred  miles  from  home,  in  a  den 
like  that,  with  a  baby  two  weeks -old,  may  be  jus- 
tuce,  but  I  call  it  brutality !  Our  Government  can 
pay  its  expenses  without  that  kind  of  revenue." 
The  whole  bundle  of  Roman  candles  was  popping 
now.  Inconsequent,  wholly  illogical,  utterly  in 
defensible  explosions.  But  only  my  heart  was 
working. 

The  Sergeant  looked  at  Marny,  relaxed  the 
scowl  about  his  eyebrows,  and  smiled;  such 
"softies"  seemed  rare  to  him. 

"Well,  if  you're  stuck  on  her — and  I'm  damned 
if  I  don't  believe  you  are — let  me  give  you  a 
piece  of  advice.  Don't  give  her  no  money  till 
she  gets  on  the  train,  and  whatever  you  do,  don't 
leave  her  here  over  night.  There's  a  gang  around 
here" — and  he  jerked  his  thumb  in  the  direction 
of  the  door — "that  might—"  and  he  winked  know 
ingly. 

"You  don't  mean — "  A  cold  chill  suddenly 
developed  near  the  roots  of  my  hair  and  trickled 
to  my  spine. 

"Well,  she's  too  good-lookin'  to  be  wanderin' 
round  huntin'  for  a  board  in'-house.  You  see  her 

94. 


THE    CKIME    OF    SAMANTHY    NORTH 

on  the  train,  that's  all.  Starts  at  eight  to-night. 
That's  the  one  they  all  go  by — those  who  git  out 
and  can  raise  the  money.  She  ought  to  leave  now, 
'cordin'  to  the  regulations,  but  as  long  as  you're 
a  friend  of  Mr.  Marny's  I'll  keep  her  here  in  the 
office  till  I  go  home  at  seven  o'clock.  Then  you'd 
better  have  someone  to  look  after  her.  No,  you 
needn't  go  back  and  see  her" — this  in  answer  to 
a  movement  I  made  toward  the  prison  door.  "I'll 
fix  everything.  Mr.  Marny  knows  me." 

I  thanked  the  Sergeant,  and  we  started  for  the 
air  outside — something  we  could  breathe,  some 
thing  with  a  sky  overhead  and  the  dear  earth  un 
derfoot,  something  the  sun  warmed  and  the  free 
wind  cooled. 

Only  one  thing  troubled  me  now.  I  could  not 
take  the  girl  to  the  train  myself,  neither  could 
Marny,  for  I  had  promised  to  lecture  that  same 
night  for  the  Art  Club  at  eight  o'clock,  and  Marny 
was  to  introduce  me.  The  railroad  station  was 
three  miles  away. 

"I've  got  it!"  cried  Marny,  when  we  touched 
the  sidewalk,  elbowing  our  way  among  the  crowd 
of  loafers  who  always  swarm  about  a  place  of  this 
kind.  (He  was  as  much  absorbed  in  the  girl's 
future,  when  he  heard  her  story,  as  I  was.)  "Aunt 
Chloe  lives  within  two  blocks  of  us — let's  hunt 
her  up.  She  ought  to  be  at  home  by  this  time." 

The  old  woman  was  just  entering  her  street  door 
when  she  heard  Marny's  voice,  her  basket  on  her 
arm,  a  rabbit-skin  tippet  about  her  neck. 

25 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

"Dat  I  will,  honey,"  she  answered,  positively, 
when  the  case  was  laid  before  her.  "Dat  I  will; 
'deed  an'  double  I  will." 

She  stepped  into  the  house,  left  her  basket, 
joined  us  again  on  the  sidewalk,  and  walked  with 
us  back  to  the  Sheriff's  office. 

"All  right,"  said  the  Sergeant,  when  we  brought 
her  in.  "Yes,  I  know  the  old  woman ;  the  gal  will 
be  ready  for  her  when  she  comes,  but  I  guess  I'd 
better  send  one  of  my  men  along  with  'em  both 
far  as  the  depot.  Ain't  no  use  takin'  no  chances." 

The  dear  old  woman  followed  us  again  until 
we  found  a  clerk  in  a  branch  ticket-office,  who 
picked  out  a  long  green  slip  from  a  library  of 
tickets,  punched  it  with  the  greatest  care  with  a 
pair  of  steel  nippers,  and  slipped  it  into  an 
official  envelope  labelled:  "K.  C.  Pineyville,  Ky. 
8  P.M." 

With  this  tightly  grasped  in  her  wrinkled  brown 
hand,  together  with  another  package  of  Marny's 
many  times  in  excess  of  the  stage  fare  of  thirty-six 
miles  and  which  she  slipped  into  her  capacious 
bosom,  Aunt  Chloe  "made  her  manners"  with  the 
slightest  dip  of  a  courtesy  and  left  us  with  the  re 
mark  : 

"Sha'n't  nothin'  tech  her,  honey;  gwinter  stick 
right  close  to  her  till  de  steam-cars  git  to  movin'. 
I'll  be  over  early  in  de  mawnin'  an'  let  ye  know. 
Doan'  worry,  honey ;  ain't  nothin'  gwinter  happen 
to  her  arter  I  gits  my  han's  on  her." 

26 


THE    CRIME    OF    SAMANTHY    NORTH 

When  I  came  down  to  breakfast,  Aunt  Chloe 
was  waiting  for  me  in  the  hall.  She  looked  like 
the  old  woman  in  the  fairy-tale  in  her  short  black 
dress  that  came  to  her  shoe-tops,  snow-white  apron 
and  headkerchief,  covered  by  a  close-fitting  nun- 
like  hood — only  the  edge  of  the  handkerchief 
showed — making  her  seem  the  old  black  saint  that 
she  was.  It  not  being  one  of  her  cleaning-days, 
she  had  "kind  o'  spruced  herself  up  a  li'l  mite," 
she  said.  She  carried  her  basket,  covered  now  with 
a  white  starched  napkin  instead  of  the  red-and- 
yellow  bandanna  of  work-days.  ISTo  one  ever  knew 
what  this  basket  contained.  "Her  luncheon,"  some 
of  the  art-students  said ;  but  if  it  did,  no  one  had 
ever  seen  her  eat  it.  "Someone  else's  luncheon," 
Marny  added;  "some  sick  body  whom  she  looks 
after.  There  are  dozens  of  them." 

"Larrovers  fur  meddlins,"  Aunt  Chloe  invari 
ably  answered  those  whose  curiosity  got  the  better 
of  their  discretion — an  explanation  which  only 
deepened  the  mystery,  no  one  being  able  to  trans 
late  it. 

"She's  safe,  honey!"  Aunt  Chloe  cried,  when 
she  caught  sight  of  me.  "I  toted  de  baby,  an'  she 
toted  de  box.  Po'  li'l  chinkapin !  Mos'  break  a 
body's  heart  to  see  it !  'Clar  to  goodness,  dat 
chile's  leg  warn't  bigger'n  a  drumstick  picked  to 
de  bone.  De  man  de  Sheriff  sent  wid  us  didn't 
go  no  furder  dan  de  gate,  an'  when  he  lef  us  dey 
all  sneaked  in  an'  did  dere  bes'  ter  git  her  from  me. 

27 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

Wuss-lookin'  harum-scarums  you  ever  see.  Kep* 
a-tellin'  her  de  ticket  was  good  for  ten  days  an' 
dey'd  go  wid  her  back  to  town;  an'  dat  if  she'd 
stay  dey'd  take  her  'cross  de  ribber  to  see  de  city. 
I  seed  she  wanted  ter  git  home  to  her  husban',  an' 
she  tol'  'em  so.  Den  dey  tried  to  make  her  believe 
he  was  comin'  for  her,  an'  dey  pestered  her  so  an' 
got  her  so  mixed  up  wid  deir  lies  dat  I  was  feared 
she  was  gwine  to  give  in,  arter  all.  She  warn't 
nothin'  but  a  po'  weak  thing  noways.  Den  I  riz 
up  an'  tol'  'em  dat  I'd  call  a  pleeceman  an'  take  dat 
ticket  from  her  an'  de  money  I  gin  her  beside,  if 
she  didn't  stay  on  dat  car.  I  didn't  give  her  de 
'veiope ;  I  had  dat  in  my  han'  to  show  de  conductor 
when  he  come,  so  he  could  see  whar  she  was  ter  git 
off.  Here  it  is" — and  she  handed  me  the  ticket- 
seller's  envelope.  "Warn't  nothin'  else  saved  me 
but  dat.  When  dey  see'd  it,  dey  knowed  den  some 
body  was  a-lookin'  arter  her  an'  dey  give  in.  Po' 
critter!  I  reckon  she's  purty  nigh  home  by  dis 
time !" 

The  story  is  told.  It  is  all  true,  every  sickening 
detail.  Other  stories  just  like  it,  some  of  them 
infinitely  more  pitiful,  can  be  written  daily  by 
anyone  who  will  peer  into  the  cages  of  Covington 
jail.  There  is  nothing  to  be  done ;  nothing  can  be 
done. 

It  is  the  law  of  the  land — the  just,  holy,  benefi 
cent  law,  which  is  no  respecter  of  persons. 

28 


II 

BUD   TILDEN,  MAIL-THIEF 

"That's  Bud  Tilden,  the  worst  of  the  bunch," 
said  the  jail  Warden — the  warden  with  the  sliced 
ear  and  the  gorilla  hands.  "Reminds  me  of  a  cat'- 
mount  I  tried  to  tame  once,  only  he's  twice  as 

ugly." 

As  he  spoke,  he  pointed  to  a  prisoner  in  a  slouch 
hat  clinging  half-way  up  the  steel  bars  of  his  cage, 
his  head  thrust  through  as  far  as  his  cheeks  would 
permit,  his  legs  spread  apart  like  the  letter  A. 

"What's  he  here  for?"  I  asked. 

"Bobbin'  the  U-nited  States  mail." 

"Where?" 

"Up  in  the  Kentucky  mountains,  back  o'  Bug 
Holler.  Laid  for  the  carrier  one  night,  held  him 
up  with  a  gun,  pulled  him  off  his  horse,  slashed  the 
bottom  out  o'  the  mail-bag  with  his  knife,  took 
what  letters  he  wanted,  and  lit  off  in  the  woods, 
cool  as  a  chunk  o'  ice.  Oh !  I  tell  ye,  he's  no  sar 
dine;  you  kin  see  that  without  my  tellin'  ye. 
They'll  railroad  him,  sure." 

"When  was  he  arrested  ?" 

"Last  month — come  down  in  the  November 
29 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

batch.  The  dep'ties  had  a  circus  'fore  they  got  the 
irons  on  him.  Caught  him  in  a  clearin'  'bout  two 
miles  back  o'  the  Holler.  He  was  up  in  a  corn-crib 
with  a  Winchester  when  they  opened  on  him.  No 
body  was  hurted,  but  they  would  a-been  if  they'd 
showed  the  top  o'  their  heads,  for  he's  strong  as  a 
bull  and  kin  scalp  a  squirrel  at  fifty  yards.  They 
never  would  a-got  him  if  they  hadn't  waited  till 
dark  and  smoked  him  out,  so  one  on  'em  told  me." 
He  spoke  as  if  the  prisoner  had  been  a  rattlesnake 
or  a  sheep-stealing  wolf. 

The  mail-thief  evidently  overheard,  for  he 
dropped,  with  a  cat-like  movement,  to  the  steel 
floor  and  stood  looking  at  us  through  the  bars  from 
under  his  knit  eyebrows,  his  eyes  watching  our 
every  movement. 

There  was  no  question  about  his  strength.  As 
he  stood  in  the  glare  of  the  overhead  light  I  could 
trace  the  muscles  through  his  rough  homespun — 
for  he  was  a  mountaineer,  pure  and  simple,  and  not 
a  city-bred  thief  in  ready-made  clothes.  I  saw  that 
the  bulging  muscles  of  his  calves  had  driven  the 
wrinkles  of  his  butternut  trousers  close  up  under 
the  knee-joint  and  that  those  of  his  thighs  had 
rounded  out  the  coarse  cloth  from  the  knee  to  the 
hip.  The  spread  of  his  shoulders  had  performed 
a  like  service  for  his  shirt,  which  was  stretched  out 
of  shape  over  the  chest  and  back.  This  was  crossed 
by  but  one  suspender,  and  was  open  at  the  throat — 
a  tree-trunk  of  a  throat,  with  all  the  cords  support- 
30 


BUD   TILDES,   MAIL-THIEF 

ing  the  head  firmly  planted  in  the  shoulders.  The 
arms  were  long  and  had  the  curved  movement  of 
the  tentacles  of  a  devil-fish.  The  hands  were 
big  and  bony,  the  fingers  knotted  together  with 
knuckles  of  iron.  He  wore  no  collar  nor  any 
coat ;  nor  did  he  bring  one  with  him,  so  the  War 
den  said. 

I  had  begun  my  inventory  at  his  feet  as  he  stood 
gazing  sullenly  at  us,  his  great  red  hands  tightly 
clasped  around  the  bars.  When  in  my  inspection 
I  passed  from  his  open  collar  up  his  tree-trunk  of 
a  throat  to  his  chin,  and  then  to  his  face,  half- 
shaded  by  a  big  slouch  hat,  which  rested  on  his 
flaring  ears,  and  at  last  looked  into  his  eyes,  a 
slight  shock  of  surprise  went  through  me.  I  had 
been  examining  this  wild  beast  with  my  judgment 
already  warped  by  the  Warden ;  that's  why  I  began 
at  his  feet  and  worked  up.  If  I  had  started  in  on 
an  unknown  subject,  prepared  to  rely  entirely 
upon  my  own  judgment,  I  would  have  begun  at 
his  eyes  and  worked  down.  My  shock  of  surprise 
was  the  result  of  this  upward  process  of  inspection. 
An  awakening  of  this  kind,  the  awakening  to  an 
injustice  done  a  man  we  have  half-understoodr 
often  comes  after  years  of  such  prejudice  and  mis 
understanding.  With  me  this  awakening  came 
with  my  first  glimpse  of  his  eyes. 

There  was  nothing  of  the  Warden's  estimate  in 
these  eyes ;  nothing  of  cruelty  nor  deceit  nor  greed. 
Those  I  looked  into  were  a  light  blue — a  washed* 
31 


THE   OTDEK  DOG 

out  china  blue ;  eyes  that  shone  out  of  a  good  heart 
rather  than  out  of  a  bad  brain ;  not  very  deep  eyes ; 
not  very  expressive  eyes ;  dull,  perhaps,  but  kindly. 
The  features  were  none  the  less  attractive ;  the 
mouth  was  large,  well-shaped,  and  filled  with  big 
white  teeth,  not  one  missing ;  the  nose  straight,  with 
wide,  well-turned  nostrils;  the  brow  low,  but 
not  cunning  nor  revengeful;  the  chin  strong  and 
well-modelled,  the  cheeks  full  and  of  good  color. 
A  boy  of  twenty  I  should  have  said — perhaps 
twenty-five ;  abnormally  strong,  a  big  animal  with 
small  brain-power,  perfect  digestion,  and  with 
every  function  of  his  body  working  like  a  clock. 
Photograph  his  head  and  come  upon  it  suddenly 
in  a  collection  of  others,  and  you  would  have  said : 
"A  big  country  bumpkin  who  ploughs  all  day  and 
milks  the  cows  at  night."  He  might  be  the  blood 
thirsty  ruffian,  the  human  wild  beast,  the  Warden 
had  described,  but  he  certainly  did  not  look  it.  I 
would  like  to  have  had  just  such  a  man  on  any 
one  of  my  gangs  with  old  Captain  Joe  over  him. 
He  would  have  fought  the  sea  with  the  best  of  them 
and  made  the  work  of  the  surf-men  twice  as  easy 
if  he  had  taken  a  hand  at  the  watch-tackles. 

I  turned  to  the  Warden  again.  My  own  sum 
ming  up  differed  materially  from  his  estimate,  but 
I  did  not  thrust  mine  upon  him.  He  had  had,  of 
course,  a  much  wider  experience  among  criminals 
—I,  in  fact,  had  had  none  at  all — and  could  not 
be  deceived  by  outward  appearances. 

32 


BUD   TILDES,   MAIL-THIEF 

"You  say  they  are  going  to  try  him  to-day  ?"  I 
asked. 

"Yes,  at  two  o'clock.  Nearly  that  now,"  and  he 
glanced  at  his  watch.  "All  the  witnesses  are  down, 
I  hear.  They  claim  there's  something  else  mixed 
up  in  it  besides  robbing  the  mail,  but  I  don't  re 
member  what.  So  many  of  these  cases  comin'  and 
goin'  all  the  time!  His  old  father  was  in  to 
see  him  yesterday,  and  a  girl.  Some  o'  the  men 
said  she  was  his  sweetheart,  but  he  don't  look  like 
that  kind.  You  oughter  seen  his  father,  though. 
Greatest  jay  you  ever  see.  Looked  like  a  fly-up- 
the-creek.  Girl  warn't  much  better  lookin'.  They 
make  'em  out  o'  brick-clay  and  ham  fat  up  in  them 
mountains.  Ain't  human,  half  on  'em.  Better  go 
over  and  see  the  trial." 

I  waited  in  the  Warden's  office  until  the  deputies 
came  for  the  prisoner.  When  they  had  formed  in 
line  on  the  sidewalk  I  followed  behind  the  posse, 
crossing  the  street  with  them  to  the  Court-house. 
The  prisoner  walked  ahead,  handcuffed  to  a  deputy 
who  was  a  head  shorter  than  he  and  half  his  size. 
A  second  officer  walked  behind ;  I  kept  close  to 
this  rear  deputy  and  could  see  every  movement  he 
made.  I  noticed  that  his  fingers  never  left  his  hip- 
pocket  and  that  his  eye  never  wavered  from  the 
slouch  hat  on  the  prisoner's  head.  He  evidently 
intended  to  take  no  chances  with  a  man  who  could 
have  made  mince-meat  of  both  of  them  had  his 
hands  been  free. 

33 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

We  parted  at  the  main  entrance,  the  prisoner, 
with  head  erect  and  a  certain  fearless,  uncowed 
look  on  his  boyish  face,  preceding  the  deputies 
down  a  short  flight  of  stone  steps,  closely  followed 
by  the  officer. 

The  trial,  I  could  see,  had  evidently  excited  un 
usual  interest.  When  I  mounted  the  main  flight 
to  the  corridor  opening  into  the  trial  chamber  and 
entered  the  great  hallway,  it  was  crowded  with 
mountaineers — wild,  shaggy,  unkempt-looking  fel 
lows,  most  of  them.  All  were  dressed  in  the  garb 
of  their  locality:  coarse,  rawhide  shoes,  deerskin 
waistcoats,  rough,  butternut-dyed  trousers  and 
coats,  and  a  coon-skin  or  army  slouch  hat  worn 
over  one  eye.  Many  of  them  had  their  saddle-bags 
with  them.  There  being  no  benches,  those  who 
were  not  standing  were  squatting  on  their 
haunches,  their  shoulders  against  the  bare  wall. 
Others  were  huddled  close  to  the  radiators.  The 
smell  of  escaping  steam  from  these  radiators, 
mingling  with  the  fumes  of  tobacco  and  the  effluvia 
from  so  many  closely  packed  human  bodies,  made 
the  air  stifling. 

I  edged  my  way  through  the  crowd  and  pushed 
through  the  court-room  door.  The  Judge  was  just 
taking  his  seat — a  dull,  heavy-looking  man  with  a 
bald  head,  a  pair  of  flabby,  clean-shaven  cheeks, 
and  two  small  eyes  that  looked  from  under  white 
eyebrows.  Half-way  up  his  forehead  rested  a  pair 
of  gold  spectacles.  The  jury  had  evidently  been 

34 


BUD   TILDEN,   MAIL-THIEF 

out  for  luncheon,  for  they  were  picking  their  teeth 
and  settling  themselves  comfortably  in  their  chairs. 

The  court-room  —  a  new  one  —  outraged,  as 
usual,  in  its  construction  every  known  law  of  pro 
portion,  the  ceiling  being  twice  too  high  for  the 
walls,  and  the  big,  uncurtained  windows  (they 
were  all  on  one  side) letting  in  a  glare  of  light  that 
made  silhouettes  of  every  object  seen  against  it. 
Only  by  the  closest  attention  could  one  hear  or 
see  in  a  room  like  this. 

The  seating  of  the  Judge  was  the  signal  for  the 
admission  of  the  crowd  in  the  corridor,  who  filed 
in  through  the  door,  some  forgetting  to  remove 
their  hats,  others  passing  the  doorkeeper  in  a  defi 
ant  way.  Each  man,  as  soon  as  his  eyes  became 
accustomed  to  the  glare  from  the  windows,  looked 
furtively  toward  the  prisoners'  box.  Bud  Tilden 
was  already  in  his  seat  between  the  two  deputies, 
his  hands  unshackled,  his  blue  eyes  searching  the 
Judge's  face,  his  big  slouch  hat  on  the  floor  at  his 
feet.  What  was  yet  in  store  for  him  would  drop 
from  the  lips  of  this  face. 

The  crier  of  the  court,  a  young  negro,  made  his 
announcements. 

I  found  a  seat  between  the  prisoner  and  the 
bench,  so  that  I  could  hear  and  see  the  better.  The 
Government  prosecutor  occupied  a  seat  at  a  table 
to  my  right,  between  me  and  the  three  staring 
Gothic  windows.  When  he  rose  from  his  chair  his 
body  came  in  silhouette  against  their  light.  With 

35 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

his  goat-beard,  beak-nose,  heavy  eyebrows,  long, 
black  hair  resting  on  the  back  of  his  coat-collar, 
bent  body,  loose-jointed  arms,  his  coat-tails  sway 
ing  about  his  thin  legs,  he  looked  (I  did  not  see 
him  in  any  other  light)  like  a  hungry  buzzard 
flapping  his  wings  before  taking  flight. 

He  opened  the  case  with  a  statement  of  facts. 
He  would  prove,  he  said,  that  this  mountain-ruf 
fian  was  the  terror  of  the  neighborhood,  in  which 
life  was  none  too  safe ;  that  although  this  was  the 
first  time  he  had  been  arrested,  there  were  many 
other  crimes  which  could  be  laid  at  his  door,  had 
his  neighbors  not  been  afraid  to  inform  upon 
him. 

Warming  up  to  the  subject,  flapping  his  arms 
aloft  like  a  pair  of  wings,  he  recounted,  with  some 
dramatic  fervor,  what  he  called  the  "lonely  ride  of 
the  tried  servant  of  the  Government  over  the  rude 
passes  of  the  mountains,"  recounting  the  risks 
which  these  faithful  men  ran ;  then  he  referred  to 
the  sanctity  of  the  United  States  mails,  reminding 
the  jury  and  the  audience — particularly  the  audi 
ence — of  the  chaos  which  would  ensue  if  these  sa 
cred  mail-bags  were  tampered  with ;  "the  stricken, 
tear-stained  face  of  the  mother,"  for  instance,  who 
had  been  waiting  for  days  and  weeks  for  news  of 
her  dying  son,  or  "the  anxious  merchant  brought  to 
ruin  for  want  of  a  remittance  which  was  to  tide 
him  over  some  financial  distress,"  neither  of  them 
knowing  that  at  that  very  moment  some  highway- 

36 


man  like  the  prisoner  "was  fattening  off  the  result 
of  his  theft."  This  last  was  uttered  with  a  slap 
ping  of  both  hands  on  his  thighs,  his  coat-tails 
swaying  in  unison.  He  then  went  on  in  a  graver 
tone  to  recount  the  heavy  penalties  the  Govern 
ment  imposed  for  violations  of  the  laws  made  to 
protect  this  service  and  its  agents,  and  wound  up 
by  assuring  the  jury  of  his  entire  confidence  in 
their  intelligence  and  integrity,  knowing,  as  he  did, 
how  just  would  be  their  verdict,  irrespective  of 
the  sympathy  they  might  feel  for  one  who  had  pre 
ferred  "the  hidden  walks  of  crime  to  the  broad 
open  highway  of  an  honest  life."  Altering  his  tone 
again  and  speaking  in  measured  accents,  he  ad 
mitted  that,  although  the  Government's  witnesses 
had  not  been  able  to  identify  the  prisoner  by  his 
face,  he  having  concealed  himself  in  the  bushes 
while  the  rifling  of  the  pouch  was  in  progress,  yet 
so  full  a  view  was  gotten  of  his  enormous  back 
and  shoulders  as  to  leave  no  doubt  in  his  mind 
that  the  prisoner  before  them  had  committed  the 
assault,  since  it  would  not  be  possible  to  find  two 
such  men,  even  in  the  mountains  of  Kentucky.  As 
his  first  witness  he  would  call  the  mail-carrier. 

Bud  had  sat  perfectly  stolid  during  the 
harangue.  Once  he  reached  down  with  one  long 
arm  and  scratched  his  bare  ankle  with  his  fore 
finger,  his  eyes,  with  the  gentle  light  in  them  that 
had  first  attracted  me,  glancing  aimlessly  about 
the  room ;  then  he  settled  back  again  in  his  chair, 

37 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

its  back  creaking  to  the  strain  of  his  shoulders. 
Whenever  he  looked  at  the  speaker,  which  was  sel 
dom,  a  slight  curl,  expressing  more  contempt  than 
anxiety,  crept  along  his  lips.  lie  was,  no  doubt, 
comparing  his  own  muscles  to  those  of  the  buzzard 
and  wondering  what  he  would  do  to  him  if  he  ever 
caught  him  out  alone.  Men  of  enormous  strength 
generally  measure  the  abilities  of  others  by  their 
own  standards. 

"Mr.  Bowditch  will  take  the  chair !"  cried  the 
prosecutor. 

At  the  summons,  a  thin,  wizen-faced,  stubbly- 
bearded  man  of  fifty,  his  shirt-front  stained  with 
tobacco-juice,  rose  from  his  seat  and  took  the 
stand.  The  struggle  for  possession  of  the  bag  must 
have  been  a  brief  one,  for  he  was  but  a  dwarf  com 
pared  to  the  prisoner.  In  a  low,  constrained  voice 
— the  awful  hush  of  the  court-room  had  evidently 
impressed  him — and  in  plain,  simple  words,  in 
strong  contrast  to  the  flowery  opening  of  the  prose 
cutor,  he  recounted  the  facts  as  he  knew  them.  He 
told  of  the  sudden  command  to  halt ;  of  the  attack 
in  the  rear  and  the  quick  jerking  of  the  mail-bags 
from,  beneath  his  saddle,  upsetting  him  into  the 
road;  of  the  disappearance  of  the  robber  in  the 
bushes,  his  head  and  shoulders  only  outlined 
against  the  dim  light  of  the  stars ;  of  the  flight  of 
the  robber,  and  of  his  finding  the  bag  a  few  yards 
away  from  the  place  of  assault  with  the  bottom 
cut.  None  of  the  letters  was  found  opened ;  vhich. 

38 


BUD   TILDES,   MAIL-THIEF 

ones  were  missing  he  couldn't  say.  Of  one  thing 
he  was  sure — none  were  left  behind  by  him  on  the 
ground,  when  he  refilled  the  bag. 

The  bag,  with  a  slash  in  the  bottom  as  big  as 
its  mouth,  was  then  passed  around  the  jury-box, 
each  juror  in  his  inspection  of  the  cut  seeming  to 
be  more  interested  in  the  way  in  which  the  bag 
was  manufactured  (some  of  them,  I  should  judge, 
had  never  examined  one  before)  than  in  the  way 
in  which  it  was  mutilated.  The  bag  was  then  put 
in  evidence  and  hung  over  the  back  of  a  chair, 
mouth  down,  the  gash  in  its  bottom  in  full  vieAV 
of  the  jury.  This  gash,  from  where  I  sat,  looked 
like  one  inflicted  on  an  old-fashioned  rubber  foot 
ball  by  a  high  kicker. 

Hank  Halliday,  in  a  deerskin  waistcoat  and 
dust-stained  slouch  hat,  which  he  crumpled  up  in 
his  hand  and  held  under  his  chin,  was  the  next 
witness. 

In  a  jerky,  strained  voice  he  told  of  his  mailing 
a  letter,  from  a  village  within  a  short  distance  of 
Bug  Hollow,  to  a  girl  friend  of  his  on  the  after 
noon  of  the  night  of  the  robbery.  He  swore  posi 
tively  that  this  letter  was  in  this  same  mail-bag, 
because  he  had  handed  it  to  the  carrier  himself 
before  he  got  on  his  horse,  and  added,  with  equal 
positiveness,  that  it  had  never  reached  its  destina.- 
tion.  The  value  or  purpose  of  this  last  testimony, 
the  non-receipt  of  the  letter,  was  not  clear  to  me, 
except  upon  the  theory  that  the  charge  of  robbery 
39 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

might  fail  if  it  could  be  proved  by  the  defence  that 
no  letter  was  missing. 

Bud  fastened  his  eyes  on  Halliday  and  smiled 
as  he  made  this  last  statement  about  the  undeliv 
ered  letter,  the  first  smile  I  had  seen  across  his 
face,  but  gave  no  other  sign  indicating  that  Halli- 
day's  testimony  affected  his  chances  in  any  way. 

Then  followed  the  usual  bad-character  witnesses 
— both  friends  of  Halliday,  I  could  see ;  two  this 
time — one  charging  Bud  with  all  the  crimes  in  the 
decalogue,  and  the  other,  under  the  lead  of  the 
prosecutor,  launching  forth  into  an  account  of  a 
turkey-shoot  in  which  Bud  had  wrongfully  claimed 
the  turkey — an  account  which  was  at  last  cut  short 
by  the  Judge  in  the  midst  of  its  most  interesting 
part,  as  having  no  particular  bearing  on  the  case. 

Up  to  this  time  no  one  had  appeared  for  the 
accused,  nor  had  any  objection  been  made  to  any 
part  of  the  testimony  except  by  the  Judge.  Neither 
had  any  one  of  the  prosecutor's  witnesses  been 
asked  a  single  question  in  rebuttal. 

With  the  resting  of  the  Government's  case  a 
dead  silence  fell  upon  the  room. 

The  Judge  waited  a  few  moments,  the  tap  of  his 
lead-pencil  sounding  through  the  stillness,  and 
then  asked  if  the  attorney  for  the  defence  was 
ready. 

No  one  answered.  Again  the  Judge  put  the 
question,  this  time  with  some  impatience. 

Then  he  addressed  the  prisoner. 
40 


BUD   TILDES,   MAIL-THIEF 

"Is  your  lawyer  present  ?" 

Bud  bent  forward  in  his  chair,  put  his  hands 
on  his  knees,  and  answered  slowly,  without  a  tre 
mor  in  his  voice : 

"I  ain't  got  none.  One  come  yisterday  to  the 
jail,  but  he  didn't  like  what  I  tol'  him  and  he  ain't 
showed  up  since." 

A  spectator  sitting  by  the  door,  between  an  old 
man  and  a  young  girl,  both  evidently  from  the 
mountains,  rose  to  his  feet  and  walked  briskly  to 
the  open  space  before  the  Judge.  He  had  sharp, 
restless  eyes,  wore  gloves,  and  carried  a  silk  hat 
in  one  hand. 

"In  the  absence  of  the  prisoner's  counsel,  your 
Honor,"  he  said,  "I  am  willing  to  go  on  with  this 
case.  I  was  here  when  it  opened  and  have  heard 
all  the  testimony.  I  have  also  conferred  with  some 
of  the  witnesses  for  the  defence." 

"Did  I  not  appoint  counsel  in  this  case  yester 
day  ?"  said  the  Judge,  turning  to  the  clerk. 

There  was  a  hurried  conference  between  the  two, 
the  Judge  listening  wearily,  cupping  his  ear  with 
his  hand  and  the  clerk  rising  on  his  toes  so  that  he 
could  reach  his  Honor's  hearing  the  easier. 

"It  seems,"  said  the  Judge,  resuming  his  posi 
tion,  and  addressing  the  room  at  large,  "that  the 
counsel  already  appointed  has  been  called  out  of 
town  on  urgent  business.  If  the  prisoner  has  no 
objection,  and  if  you,  sir — "  looking  straight  at 
the  would-be  attorney — "have  heard  all  the  testi- 

41 


THE   UNDEE  DOG 

mony  so  far  offered,  the  Court  sees  no  objection  to 
your  acting  in  his  place." 

The  deputy  on  the  right  side  of  the  prisoner 
leaned  over,  whispered  something  to  Tilden,  who 
stared  at  the  Judge  and  shook  his  head.  It  was  evi 
dent  that  Bud  had  no  objection  to  this  nor  to  any 
thing  else,  for  that  matter.  Of  all  the  men  in  the 
room  he  seemed  the  least  interested. 

I  turned  in  my  seat  and  touched  the  arm  of  my 
neighbor. 

"Who  is  that  man  who  wants  to  go  on  with  the 
case  ?" 

"Oh,  that's  Bill  Cartwright,  one  of  the  cheap, 
shyster  lawyers  always  hanging  around  here  look 
ing  for  a  job.  His  boast  is  he  never  lost  a  suit. 
Guess  the  other  fellow  skipped  because  he  thought 
he  had  a  better  scoop  somewhere  else.  These  poor 
devils  from  the  mountains  never  have  any  money 
to  pay  a  lawyer.  Court  appoints  'em." 

With  the  appointment  of  the  prisoner's  attorney 
the  crowd  in  the  court-room  craned  their  necks  in 
closer  attention,  one  man  standing  on  his  chair  for 
a  better  view  until  a  deputy  ordered  him  down. 
They  knew  what  the  charge  was.  It  was  the  de 
fence  they  all  wanted  to  hear.  That  had  been  the 
topic  of  conversation  around  the  tavern  stoves  of 
Bug  Hollow  for  months  past. 

Cartwright  began  by  asking  that  the  mail-car 
rier  be  recalled.  The  little  man  again  took  the 
stand. 

42 


BUD   TILDEN,   MAIL-THIEF 

The  methods  of  these  police-court  lawyers  al 
ways  interest  me.  They  are  gamblers  in  evidence, 
most  of  them.  They  take  their  chances  as  the 
cases  go  on ;  some  of  them  know  the  jury — one  or 
two  is  enough ;  some  are  learned  in  the  law — more 
learned,  often,  than  the  prosecutor,  who  is  a  Gov 
ernment  appointee  with  political  backers,  and  now 
and  then  one  of  them  knows  the  Judge,  who  is  also 
a  political  appointee  and  occasionally  has  his  party 
to  care  for.  All  are  valuable  in  an  election,  and  a 
few  of  them  are  honest.  This  one,  my  neighbor 
told  me,  had  held  office  as  a  police  justice  and  was 
a  leader  in  his  district. 

Cartwright  drew  his  gloves  carefully  from  his 
hands,  laid  his  silk  hat  on  a  chair,  dropped  into 
it  a  package  of  legal  papers  tied  with  a  red  string, 
and,  adjusting  his  glasses,  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
mail-carrier.  The  expression  on  his  face  was 
bland  and  seductive. 

"At  what  hour  do  you  say  the  attempted  rob 
bery  took  place,  Mr.  Bowditch  ?" 

"About  eleven  o'clock." 

"Did  you  have  a  watch  ?" 

"No." 

"How  do  you  know,  then  ?"  The  question  was 
asked  in  a  mild  way  as  if  he  intended  to  help  the 
carrier's  memory. 

"I  don't  know  exactly;  it  may  have  been  half- 
past  ten  or  eleven." 

"You,  of  course,  saw  the  man's  face  ?" 
43 


THE    UNDER  DOG 

"Ko." 

"Then  you  heard  him  speak  ?"  Same  tone  as  if 
trying  his  best  to  encourage  the  witness  in  his  state 
ments. 

"No."  This  was  said  with  some  positiveness. 
The  mail-carrier  evidently  intended  to  tell  the 
truth. 

Cartwright  turned  quickly  with  a  snarl  like  that 
of  a  dog  suddenly  goaded  into  a  fight. 

"How  can  you  swear,  then,  that  the  prisoner 
made  the  assault  ?" 

The  little  man  changed  color  and  stammered  out 
in  excuse : 

"He  was  as  big  as  him,  anyway,  and  there  ain't 
no  other  like  him  nowhere  in  them  parts." 

"Oh,  he  was  as  big  as  him,  was  he  ?"  This  retort 
came  with  undisguised  contempt.  "And  there  are 
no  others  like  him,  eh?  Do  you  know  everybody 
in  Bell  County,  Mr.  Bowditch  ?" 

The  mail-carrier  did  not  answer. 

Cartwright  waited  until  the  discomfiture  of  the 
witness  could  be  felt  by  the  jury,  dismissed  him 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  and,  looking  over  the 
room,  beckoned  to  an  old  man  seated  by  a  girl — 
the  same  couple  he  had  been  talking  to  before  his 
appointment  by  the  Court — and  said  in  a  loud 
voice : 

"Will  Mr.  Perkins  Tilden  take  the  stand  ?" 

At  the  mention  of  his  father's  name,  Bud,  who 
had  maintained  throughout  his  indifferent  atti- 

44 


BUD   TILDES,   MAIL-THIEF 

tude,  straightened  himself  erect  in  his  chair  with 
so  quick  a  movement  that  the  deputy  edged  a  foot 
nearer  and  instinctively  slid  his  hand  to  his  hip- 
pocket. 

A  lean,  cadaverous,  painfully  thin  old  man  in 
answer  to  his  name  rose  to  his  feet  and  edged  his 
way  through  the  crowd  to  the  witness-chair.  He 
was  an  inch  taller  than  his  son,  though  only  half 
his  weight,  and  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  cheap  cloth 
of  the  fashion  of  long  ago,  the  coat  too  small  for 
him,  even  for  his  shrunken  shoulders,  and  the 
sleeves  reaching  only  to  his  wrists.  As  he  took 
his  seat,  drawing  in  his  long  legs  toward  his  chair, 
his  knee-bones,  under  the  strain,  seemed  to  be  on 
the  point  of  coming  through  his  trousers.  His 
shoulders  were  bowed,  the  incurve  of  his  thin 
stomach  following  the  line  of  his  back.  As  he 
settled  back  in  his  chair  he  passed  his  hand  ner 
vously  over  his  mouth,  as  if  his  lips  were  dry. 

Cartwright's  manner  to  this  witness  was  the 
manner  of  a  lackey  who  hangs  on  every  syllable 
that  falls  from  his  master's  lips. 

"At  what  time,  Mr.  Tilden,  did  your  son  Bud 
reach  your  house  on  the  night  of  the  robbery  ?" 

The  old  man  cleared  his  throat  and  said,  as  if 
weighing  each  word : 

"At  ten  minutes  past  ten  o'clock." 

"How  do  you  fix  the  time  ?" 

"I  had  just  wound  the  clock  when  Bud  come 


45 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

"Now,  Mr.  Tilden,  how  far  is  it  to  the  cross 
roads  where  the  mail-carrier  says  he  was 
robbed?" 

"About  a  mile  and  a  half  from  my  place." 

"And  how  long  would  it  take  an  able-bodied 
man  to  walk  it  ?" 

"  'Bout  fifteen  minutes." 

"Not  more?" 

"No,  sir." 

The  Government's  attorney  had  no  questions  to 
ask,  and  said  so  with  a  certain  assumed  non 
chalance. 

Cartwright  bowed  smilingly,  dismissed  Bud's 
father  with  a  satisfied  gesture  of  the  hand,  looked 
over  the  court-room  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was 
unable  at  the  moment  to  find  what  he  wanted, 
and  in  a  low  voice  called :  "Jennetta  Moore !" 

The  girl,  who  sat  within  three  feet  of  Cart- 
wright,  having  followed  the  old  man  almost  to  the 
witness-stand,  rose  timidly,  drew  her  shawl  closer 
about  her  shoulders,  and  took  the  seat  vacated  by 
Bud's  father.  She  had  that  half-fed  look  in  her 
face  which  one  sometimes  finds  in  the  women  of 
the  mountain-districts.  She  was  frightened  and 
very  pale.  As  she  pushed  her  poke-bonnet  back 
from  her  ears  her  unkempt  brown  hair  fell  about 
her  neck. 

But  Tilden,  at  mention  of  her  name,  half- 
started  from  his  chair  and  would  have  risen  to  his 
feet  had  not  the  officer  laid  his  hand  upon  him. 

46 


BUD   TILDEBT,   MAIL-THIEF 

He  seemed  on  the  point  of  making  some  protest 
which  the  action  of  the  officer  alone  restrained. 

Cartwright,  after  the  oath  had  been  adminis 
tered,  began  in  a  voice  so  low  that  the  jury 
stretched  their  necks  to  listen : 

"Miss  Moore,  do  you  know  the  prisoner?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  know  Bud."  She  had  one  end  of  the 
shawl  between  her  fingers  and  was  twisting  it  aim 
lessly.  Every  eye  in  the  room  was  fastened  upon 
her. 

"How  long  have  you  known  him  ?" 

There  was. a  pause,  and  then  she  said  in  a  faint 
voice : 

"Ever  since  he  and  me  growed  up." 

"Ever  since  you  and  he  grew  up,  eh?"  This 
repetition  was  in  a  loud  voice,  so  that  any  juryman 
dull  of  hearing  might  catch  it.  "Was  he  at  your 
house  on  the  night  of  the  robbery  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"At  what  time  ?" 

"  'Bout  ten  o'clock."  This  was  again  repeated. 

"How  long  did  he  stay  ?" 

"Not  more'n  ten  minutes." 

"Where  did  he  go  then  ?" 

"He  said  he  was  goin'  home." 

"How  far  is  it  to  his  home  from  your  house  ?" 

"  'Bout  ten  minutes'  walk." 

"That  will  do,  Miss  Moore,"  said  Cartwright, 
and  took  his  seat. 

The  Government  prosecutor,  who  had  sat  with 
47 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

shoulders  hunched  up,  his  wings  pulled  in,  rose 
to  his  feet  with  the  aid  of  a  chair-back,  stretched 
his  long  arms  above  his  head,  and  then,  lowering 
one  hand  level  with  the  girl's  face,  said,  as  he 
thrust  one  sharp,  skinny  finger  toward  her : 

"Did  anybody  else  come  to  see  you  the  next 
night  after  the  robbery  ?" 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Cartwright 
busied  himself  with  his  papers.  One  of  his  meth 
ods  was  never  to  seem  interested  in  the  cross-exam 
ination  of  any  one  of  his  witnesses. 

The  girl's  face  flushed,  and  she  began  to  fumble 
the  shawl  nervously  with  her  fingers. 

"Yes,  Hank  Halliday,"  she  murmured,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Mr.  Halliday,  who  has  testified  here  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  did  he  want?" 

"He  wanted  to  know  if  I'd  got  a  letter  he'd  writ 
me  day  before.  And  I  tol'  him  I  hadn't.  Then  he 
'lowed  he'd  a-brought  it  to  me  himself  if  he'd 
knowed  Bud  was  goin'  to  turn  thief  and  hold  up 
the  mail-man.  I  hadn't  heard  nothin'  'bout  it  and 
nobody  else  had  till  he  began  to  talk.  I  opened  the 
door  then  and  tol'  him  to  walk  out ;  that  I  wouldn't 
hear  nobody  speak  that  way  'bout  Bud  Tilden. 
That  was  'fore  they'd  'rested  Bud." 

"Have  you  got  that  letter  now  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Did  you  ever  get  it  ?" 
48 


BUD   TILDEN,   MAIL-THIEF 

"No,  sir." 

"Did  you  ever  see  it  ?" 

"E"o,  and  I  don't  think  it  was  ever  writ." 

"But  he  has  written  you  letters  before  ?" 

"He  used  to ;  he  don't  now." 

"That  will  do." 

The  girl  took  her  place  again  behind  the  old 
man. 

Cartwright  rose  to  his  feet  with  great  dignity, 
walked  to  the  chair  on  which  rested  his  hat,  took 
from  it  the  package  of  papers  to  serve  as  an  ora 
tor's  roll — he  did  not  open  it,  and  they  evidently 
had  no  bearing  on  the  case — and  addressed  the 
Judge,  the  package  held  aloft  in  his  hand : 

"Your  Honor,  there's  not  been  a  particle  of  evi 
dence  so  far  produced  in  this  court  to  convict  this 
man  of  this  crime.  I  have  not  conferred  with  him, 
and  therefore  do  not  know  what  answers  he  has 
to  make  to  this  infamous  charge.  I  am  convinced, 
however,  that  his  own  statement  under  oath  will 
clear  up  at  once  any  doubt  remaining  in  the  minds 
of  this  honorable  jury  of  his  innocence." 

This  was  said  with  a  certain  ill-concealed  tri 
umph  in  his  voice.  I  saw  now  why  he  had  taken 
the  case,  and  saw,  too,  the  drift  of  his  defence — 
everything  thus  far  pointed  to  the  old  hackneyed 
plea  of  an  alibi.  He  had  evidently  determined  on 
this  course  of  action  when  he  sat  listening  to  the 
stories  Bud's  father  and  the  girl  had  told  him  as 
he  sat  beside  them  on  the  bench  near  the  door. 

49 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

Their  testimony,  taken  in  connection  with  the  un 
certain  testimony  of  the  Government's  principal 
witness,  the  mail-carrier,  as  to  the  exact  time  of 
the  assault,  together  with  the  prisoner's  testimony 
stoutly  denying  the  crime,  would  insure  either  an 
acquittal  or  a  disagreement.  The  first  would 
result  in  his  fees  being  paid  by  the  court,  the 
second  would  add  to  this  amount  whatever  Bud's 
friends  could  scrape  together  to  induce  him  to 
go  on  with  the  second  trial.  In  either  case  his 
masterly  defence  was  good  for  an  additional  num 
ber  of  clients  and  perhaps — of  votes.  It  is  humil 
iating  to  think  that  any  successor  of  Choate,  Web 
ster,  or  Evarts  should  earn  his  bread  in  this  way, 
but  it  is  true  all  the  same. 

"The  prisoner  will  take  the  stand !"  cried  Cart- 
wright,  in  a  firm  voice. 

As  the  words  left  his  mouth,  the  noise  of  shuf 
fling  feet  and  the  shifting  of  positions  for  a  better 
view  of  the  prisoner  became  so  loud  that  the  Judge 
rapped  for  order,  the  clerk  repeating  it  with  the 
end  of  his  ruler. 

Bud  lifted  himself  to  his  feet  slowly  (his  being 
called  was  evidently  as  much  of  a  surprise  to  him 
as  it  was  to  the  crowded  room),  looked  about  him 
carelessly,  his  glance  resting  first  on  the  girl's  face 
and  then  on  the  deputy  beside  him.  He  stepped 
clumsily  down  from  the  raised  platform  and  shoul 
dered  his  way  to  the  witness-chair.  The  prosecut 
ing  attorney  had  evidently  been  amazed  at  the 

50 


BUD   TILDEN,   MAIL-THIEF 

flank  movement  of  his  opponent,  for  he  moved  his 
position  so  he  could  look  squarely  in  Bud's  face. 
As  the  prisoner  sank  into  his  seat,  the  room  be 
came  hushed  in  silence. 

Bud  kissed  the  book  mechanically,  hooked  his 
feet  together  and,  clasping  his  big  hands  across 
his  waist-line,  settled  his  great  body  between  the 
arms  of  the  chair,  with  his  chin  resting  on  his 
shirt-front.  Cartwright,  in  his  most  impressive 
manner,  stepped  a  foot  closer  to  Bud's  chair. 

"Mr.  Tilden,  you  have  heard  the  testimony  of 
the  mail-carrier;  now  be  good  enough  to  tell  the 
jury  where  you  were  on  the  night  of  the  robbery — 
how  many  miles  from  this  mail-sack?"  and  he 
waved  his  hand  contemptuously  toward  the  bag. 
It  was  probably  the  first  time  in  all  his  life  that 
Bud  had  heard  any  man  dignify  his  personality 
with  any  such  title. 

In  recognition  of  the  compliment,  Bud  raised 
his  chin  slightly  and  fixed  his  eyes  more  intently 
on  his  questioner.  Up  to  this  time  he  had  not 
taken  the  slightest  notice  of  him. 

"  'Bout  as  close's  I  could  git  to  it — 'bout  three 
feet,  I  should  say — maybe  less." 

Cartwright  gave  a  slight  start  and  bit  his  lip. 
Evidently  the  prisoner  had  misunderstood  him. 
The  silence  continued. 

"I  don't  mean  here,  Mr.  Tilden ;"  and  he  pointed 
to  the  bag.  "I  mean  the  night  of  the  so-called  rob- 
bery." 

51 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

"That's  what  I  said;  'bout  as  close's  I  could 
git" 

"Well,  did  you  rob  the  mail?"  This  was 
asked  uneasily,  but  with  a  half-concealed  laugh 
in  his  voice  as  if  the  joke  would  appear  in  a 
minute. 

"No." 

"No,  of  course  not."  The  tone  of  relief  was 
apparent. 

"Well,  do  you  know  anything  about  the  cutting 
of  the  bag?" 

"Yes." 

"Who  did  it?" 

"Me." 

"You?"     The  surprise  was  now  an  angry  one. 

"Yes,  me." 

At  this  unexpected  reply  the  Judge  pushed  his 
glasses  high  up  on  his  forehead  with  a  quick  mo 
tion  and  leaned  over  his  bench,  his  eyes  on  the 
prisoner.  The  jury  looked  at  each  other  with 
amazement ;  such  scenes  were  rare  in  their  experi 
ence.  The  prosecuting  attorney  smiled  grimly. 
Cartwright  looked  as  if  someone  had  struck  him 
a  sudden  blow  in  the  face. 

"What  for?"  he  stammered.  It  was  evidently 
the  only  question  left  for  him  to  ask.  All  his 
self-control  was  gone  now,  his  face  livid,  an  angry 
look  in  his  eyes.  That  any  man  with  State's  prison 
yawning  before  him  could  make  such  a  fool  of  him 
self  seemed  to  astound  him. 

52 


BUD   TILDES,   MAIL-THIEF 

Bud  turned  slowly  and,  pointing  his  finger  at 
Halliday,  said  between  his  closed  teeth: 

"Ask  Hank  Halliday ;  he  knows." 

The  buzzard  sprang  to  his  feet.  There  was  the 
scent  of  carrion  in  the  air  now;  I  saw  it  in  his 
eyes. 

"We  don't  want  to  ask  Mr.  Halliday ;  we  want 
to  ask  you.  Mr.  Halliday  is  not  on  trial,  and  we 
want  the  truth  if  you  can  tell  it." 

The  irregularity  of  the  proceeding  was  unno 
ticed  in  the  tense  excitement. 

Bud  looked  at  him  as  a  big  mastiff  looks  at  a 
snarling  cur  with  a  look  more  of  pity  than  con 
tempt.  Then  he  said  slowly,  accentuating  each 
word: 

"Keep  yer  shirt  on.  You'll  git  the  truth — git 
the  whole  of  it  Git  what  you  ain't  lookin'  for. 
There  ain't  no  liars  up  in  our  mountains  'cept  them 
skunks  in  Gov'ment  pay  you  fellers  send  up  to  us, 
and  things  like  Hank  Halliday.  He's  wuss  nor 
any  skunk.  A  skunk's  a  varmint  that  don't  stink 
tell  ye  meddle  with  him,  but  Hank  Halliday  stinks 
all  the  time.  He's  one  o'  them  fellers  that  goes 
'round  with  books  in  their  pockets  with  picters  in 
'em  that  no  girl  oughter  see  and  no  white  man 
oughter  read.  He  gits  'em  down  to  Louisville. 
There  ain't  a  man  in  Pondville  won't  tell  ye  it's 
true.  He  shoved  one  in  my  outside  pocket  over  to 
Pondville  when  I  warn't  lookin',  the  day  'fore  I 
held  up  this  man  Bowditch,  and  went  and  told  the 

53 


THE   UKDEK  DOG 

fellers  'round  the  tavern  that  I  had  it.  They  come 
and  pulled  it  out  and  had  the  laugh  on  me,  and 
then  he  began  to  talk  and  said  he'd  write  to  Jen- 
netta  and  send  her  one  o'  the  picters  by  mail  and 
tell  her  he'd  got  it  out  o'  my  coat,  and  he  did. 
Sam  Kellers  seen  Halliday  with  the  letter  and  told 
me  after  Bowditch  had  got  it  in  his  bag.  I  laid 
for  Bowditch  at  Pondville  Corners,  but  he  got  past 
somehow,  and  I  struck  in  behind  Bill  Somers's 
mill,  and  crossed  the  mountain  and  caught  up  with 
him  as  he  was  ridin'  through  the  piece  o'  woods 
near  the  clearin'.  I  didn't  know  but  he'd  try  to 
shoot,  and  I  didn't  want  to  hurt  him,  so  I  crep'  up 
behind  and  threw  him  in  the  bushes,  cut  a  hole  in 
the  bag,  and  got  the  letter.  That's  the  only  one  I 
wanted  and  that's  the  only  one  I  took.  I  didn't 
rob  no  mail,  but  I  warn't  goin'  to  hev  an  honest, 
decent  girl  like  Jennetta  git  that  letter,  and  there 
warn't  no  other  way." 

The  stillness  that  followed  was  broken  only  by 
the  Judge's  voice. 

"What  became  of  that  letter  ?" 

"I  got  it.    Want  to  see  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

Bud  felt  in  his  pockets  as  if  looking  for  some 
thing,  and  then,  with  an  expression  as  if  he  had 
suddenly  remembered,  remarked: 

"No,  I  ain't  got  none.  They  stole  my  knife 
when  they  'rested  me."  Then  facing  the  court 
room,  he  added :  "Somebody  lend  me  a  knife,  and 

54 


'-'  I  threw  him  in  the  bushes  and  got  the  letter." 


BUD   TILDEN,   MAIL-THIEF 

pass  me  my  hat  over  there  'longside  them 
sheriffs." 

The  court-crier  took  the  hat  from  one  of  the 
deputies,  and  the  clerk,  in  answer  to  a  nod  of  as 
sent  from  the  Judge,  passed  Bud  an  ink-eraser 
with  a  steel  blade  in  one  end. 

The  audience  now  had  the  appearance  of  one 
watching  a  juggler  perform  a  trick.  Bud  grasped 
the  hat  in  one  hand,  turned  back  the  brim,  inserted 
the  point  of  the  knife  between  the  hat  lining  and 
the  hat  itself  and  drew  out  a  yellow  envelope 
stained  with  dirt  and  perspiration. 

"Here  it  is.  I  ain't  opened  it,  and  what's  more, 
they  didn't  find  it  when  they  searched  me;"  and 
he  looked  again  toward  the  deputies. 

The  Judge  leaned  forward  in  his  seat  and  said : 

"Hand  me  the  letter." 

The  letter  was  passed  up  by  the  court-crier, 
every  eye  following  it.  His  Honor  examined  the 
envelope,  and,  beckoning  to  Halliday,  said: 

"Is  this  your  letter  ?" 

Halliday  stepped  to  the  side  of  the  Judge,  fin 
gered  the  letter  closely,  and  said:  "Looks  like  my 
writin'." 

"Open  it  and  see." 

Halliday  broke  the  seal  with  his  thumb-nail,  and 
took  out  half  a  sheet  of  note-paper  closely  written 
on  one  side,  wrapped  about  a  small  picture- 
card. 

"Yes,  it's  my  letter;"  and  he  glanced  sheepishly 
55 


THE   UNDEE  DOG 

around  the  room  and  hung  his  head,  his  face 
scarlet. 

The  Judge  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  raised  his 
jhand  impressively,  and  said  gravely: 

"This  case  is  adjourned  until  ten  o'clock  to 
morrow." 

Two  days  later  I  again  met  the  Warden  as  he 
was  entering  the  main  door  of  the  jail.  He  had 
been  over  to  the  Court-house,  he  said,  helping  the 
deputy  along  with  a  new  "batch  of  moonshiners." 

"What  became  of  Bud  Tilden  ?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  he  got  it  in  the  neck  for  robbin'  the  mails, 
just's  I  told  you  he  would.  Peached  on  himself 

like  a  d fool  and  give  everything  dead  away. 

He  left  for  Kansas  this  morning.  Judge  give  him 
twenty  years." 

He  is  still  in  the  lock-step  at  Leavenworth 
prison.  He  has  kept  it  up  now  for  two  years.  His 
hair  is  short,  his  figure  bent,  his  step  sluggish. 
The  law  is  slowly  making  an  animal  of  him — that 
wise,  righteous  law  which  is  no  respecter  of 
persons. 


56 


Ill 

"ELEVEN  MONTHS  AND  TEN 
DAYS" 

It  was  a  feeble  old  man  of  seventy-two  this  time 
who  sat  facing  the  jury,  an  old  man  with  bent 
back,  scant  gray  hair,  and  wistful,  pleading  eyes. 

He  had  been  arrested  in  the  mountains  of  Ken 
tucky  and  had  been  brought  to  Covington  for  trial, 
chained  to  another  outlaw,  one  of  those  "moon 
shiners"  who  rob  the  great  distilleries  of  part  of 
their  profits  and  the  richest  and  most  humane  Gov 
ernment  on  earth  of  part  of  its  revenue. 

For  eleven  months  and  ten  days  he  had  been 
penned  up  in  one  of  the  steel  cages  of  Covington 
jail. 

I  recognized  him  the  moment  I  saw  him. 

He  was  the  old  fellow  who  spoke  to  me  from  be 
tween  the  bars  of  his  den  on  my  visit  the  week 
before  to  the  inferno — the  day  I  found  Samanthy 
ISTorth  and  her  baby — and  who  told  me  then  he 
was  charged  with  "sellin'  "  and  that  he  "reckoned" 
he  was  the  oldest  of  all  the  prisoners  about  him. 
He  had  on  the  same  suit  of  coarse,  homespun 
clothes — the  trousers  hiked  up  toward  one  shoulder 
from  the  strain  of  a  single  suspender ;  the  waistcoat 
held  by  one  button;  the  shirt  open  at  the  neck, 

57 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

showing  the  wrinkled  throat,  wrinkled  as  an  old 
saddle-bag,  and  brown,  hairy  chest. 

He  still  carried  his  big  slouch  hat,  dust-be 
grimed  and  frayed  at  the  edges.  It  hung  over  one 
knee  now,  a  red  cotton  handkerchief  tucked  under 
its  brim.  He  was  superstitious  about  it,  no  doubt ; 
he  would  wear  it  when  he  walked  out  a  free  man, 
and  wanted  it  always  within  reach.  Hooked  in  its 
band  was  a  trout-fly,  a  red  ibis,  some  souvenir,  per 
haps,  of  the  cool  woods  that  he  loved,  and  which 
brought  back  to  him  the  clearer  the  happy,  careless 
days  which  might  never  be  his  again. 

The  trout-fly  settled  all  doubts  in  my  mind  as  to 
his  origin  and  his  identity.  He  was  not  a  "moon 
shiner"  ;  he  was  my  old  trout  fisherman,  Jonathan 
Gordon,  come  back  to  life,  even  to  his  streaming, 
unkempt  beard,  leathery  skin,  tljan,  peaked  nose, 
and  deep,  searching  eyes.  That  the  daisies  which 
Jonathan  loved  were  at  that  very  moment  bloom 
ing  over  his  grave  up  in  his  New  Hampshire  hills, 
and  had  been  for  years  back,  made  no  difference  to 
me.  I  could  not  be  mistaken.  The  feeble  old  man 
sitting  within  ten  feet  of  me,  fidgeting  about 
in  his  chair,  the  glare  of  the  big  windows 
flooding  his  face  with  light,  his  long  legs  tucked 
under  him,  his  bony  hands  clasped  together,  the 
scanty  gray  hair  adrift  over  his  forehead,  his 
slouch  hat  hooked  over  his  knee,  was  my  own 
Jonathan  come  back  to  life.  His  dog,  George,  too, 
was  somewhere  within  reach,  and  so  were  his 

58 


"ELEVEN   MONTHS   AND   TEN   DAYS'* 

fishing-pole  and  creel,  with  its  leather  shoulder- 
band  polished  like  a  razor-strop.  You  who  read 
this  never  saw  Jonathan,  perhaps,  but  you  can 
easily  carry  his  picture  in  your  mind  by  remember 
ing  some  one  of  the  other  old  fellows  you  used  to 
see  on  Sunday  mornings  hitching  their  horses  to 
the  fence  outside  of  the  country  church,  or  saunter 
ing  through  the  woods  with  a  fish-pole  over  their 
shoulders  and  a  creel  by  their  sides,  or  with  their 
heads  together  on  the  porch  of  some  cross-roads 
store,  bartering  eggs  and  butter  for  cotton  cloth 
and  brown  sugar.  All  these  simple-minded,  open- 
aired,  out-of-doors  old  fellows,  with  the  bark  on 
them,  are  very  much  alike. 

The  only  difference  between  the  two  men  lay 
in  the  expression  of  the  two  faces.  Jonathan  al 
ways  looked  straight  at  you  when  he  talked,  so  that 
you  could  fathom  his  eyes  as  you  would  fathom  a 
deep  pool  that  mirrored  the  stars.  This  old  man's 
eyes  wavered  from  one  to  another,  lighting  first  on 
the  jury,  then  on  the  buzzard  of  a  District  Attor 
ney,  and  then  on  the  Judge,  with  whom  rested  the 
freedom  which  meant  life  or  which  meant  im 
prisonment:  at  his  age — death.  This  wavering 
look  was  the  look  of  a  dog  who  had  been  an  outcast 
for  weeks,  or  who  had  been  shut  up  with  a  chain 
about  his  throat;  one  who  had  received  only  kicks 
and  cuffs  for  pats  of  tenderness — a  cringing, 
pleading  look  ready  to  crouch  beneath  some  fresh 
cruelty. 

59 


THE   UNDEK  DOG 

This  look,  as  the  trial  went  on  and  the  buzzard 
of  an  attorney  flapped  out  his  denunciations,  deep 
ened  to  an  expression  of  abject  fear.  In  trying  to 
answer  the  questions  hurled  at  him,  he  would 
stroke  his  parched  throat  mechanically  with  his 
long  fingers  as  if  to  help  the  syllables  free  them 
selves.  In  listening  to  the  witnesses  he  would 
curve  his  body  forward,  one  skinny  hand  cupped 
behind  his  ear,  his  jaw  dropping  slowly,  revealing 
the  white  line  of  the  lips  above  the  straggling 
beard.  Now  and  then  as  he  searched  the  eyes  of 
the  jury  there  would  flash  out  from  his  own  the 
same  baffled,  anxious  look  that  comes  into  dear  old 
Joe  Jefferson's  face  when  he  stops  half-way  up  the 
mountain  and  peers  anxiously  into  the  eyes  of  the 
gnomes  who  have  stolen  out  of  the  darkness  and 
are  grouping  themselves  silently  about  him — a 
look  expressing  one  moment  his  desire  to  please 
and  the  next  his  anxiety  to  escape. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  the  old  man's  crime, 
not  the  slightest.  It  had  been  only  the  tweedledum 
and  tweedledee  of  the  law  that  had  saved  him  the 
first  time.  They  would  not  serve  him  now.  The 
evidence  was  too  conclusive,  the  facts  too  plain. 
The  "deadwood,"  as  such  evidence  is  called  by  the 
initiated,  lay  in  heaps — more  than  enough  to  send 
him  to  State  prison  for  the  balance  of  his  natural 
life.  The  buzzard  of  a  District  Attorney  who  had 
first  scented  out  his  body  with  an  indictment,  and 

60 


who  all  these  eleven  months  and  ten  days  had  sat 
with  folded  wings  and  himched-up  shoulders,  wait 
ing  for  his  final  meal — I  had  begun  to  dislike  him 
in  the  Bud  Tilden  trial,  but  I  hated  him  now  (a 
foolish,  illogical  prejudice,  for  he  was  only  doing 
his  duty  as  he  saw  it) — had  full  control  of  all  the 
"deadwood" ;  had  it  with  him,  in  fact.  There 
were  not  only  some  teaspoonfuls  of  the  identical 
whiskey  which  this  law-breaker  had  sold,  all  in  an 
eight-ounce  vial  properly  corked  and  labelled,  but 
there  was  also  the  identical  silver  dime  which  had 
been  paid  for  it.  One  of  the  jury  was  smelling 
this  whiskey  when  I  entered  the  court-room;  an 
other  was  fingering  the  dime.  It  was  a  good  dime, 
and  bore  the  stamp  of  the  best  and  greatest  nation 
on  the  earth.  On  one  side  was  the  head  of  the 
Goddess  of  Liberty  and  on  the  other  was  the 
wreath  of  plenty:  some  stalks  of  corn  and  the 
bursting  heads  of  wheat,  with  one  or  two  ivy 
leaves  twisted  together,  suggesting  honor  and  glory 
and  achievement.  The  "deadwood" — the  evidence 
— was  all  right.  All  that  remained  was  for  the 
buzzard  to  flap  his  wings  once  or  twice  in  a  speech ; 
then  the  jury  would  hold  a  short  consultation,  a 
few  words  would  follow  from  the  presiding  Judge, 
and  the  carcass  would  be  ready  for  the  official  un 
dertaker,  the  prison  "Warden. 

How  wonderful  the  system,  how  mighty  the 
results ! 

61 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

One  is  often  filled  with  admiration  and  astonish 
ment  at  the  perfect  working  of  this  mighty  engine, 
the  law.  Properly  adjusted,  it  rests  on  the  bed 
plate  of  equal  rights  to  all  men;  is  set  in  motion 
by  the  hot  breath  of  the  people — superheated  often 
by  popular  clamor ;  is  kept  safe  by  the  valve  of  a 
grand  jury;  is  governed  in  its  speed  by  the  wise 
and  prudent  Judge,  and  regulated  in  its  output 
by  a  jury  of  twelve  men. 

Sometimes  in  the  application  of  its  force  this 
machine,  being  man-made,  like  all  machines,  and 
thus  without  a  soul,  gets  out  of  order,  loosens  a 
cog  or  bolt  perhaps,  throwing  the  mechanism  "out 
of  gear,"  as  it  is  called.  When  this  happens,  the 
engine  resting  on  its  bed-plate  still  keeps  its  foun 
dation,  but  some  lesser  part,  the  loom  or  lathe  or 
driving-wheel,  which  is  another  way  of  saying  the 
arrest,  the  trial  or  the  conviction,  goes  awry. 
Sometimes  the  power-belt  is  purposely  thrown  off, 
the  machinery  stopped,  and  a  consultation  takes 
place,  resulting  in  a  disagreement  or  a  new  trial. 
When  the  machine  is  started  again,  it  is  started 
more  carefully,  with  the  first  experience  remem 
bered.  Sometimes  the  rightful  material — the 
criminal,  or  the  material  from  which  the  criminal 
is  made — to  feed  this  loom  or  lathe  or  driving- 
wheel,  is  replaced  by  some  unsuitable  material  like 
the  girl  whose  hair  became  entangled  in  a  flying- 
belt  and  whose  body  was  snatched  up  and  whirled 
mercilessly  about.  Only  then  is  the  engine  work- 

62 


"ELEVEN   MONTHS   AND   TEN   DAYS" 

ing  on  its  bed-plate  brought  to  a  standstill.  The 
steam  of  the  boiler,  the  breath  of  the  people,  keeps 
up,  but  it  is  withheld  from  the  engine  until  the 
mistake  can  be  rectified  and  the  girl  rescued.  The 
law  of  mercy,  the  divine  law,  now  asserts  itself. 
This  law,  being  the  law  of  God,  is  higher  than 
the  law  of  man.  Some  of  those  who  believe  in  the 
man-law  and  who  stand  over  the  mangled  body  of 
the  victim,  or  who  sit  beside  her  bed,  bringing  her 
slowly  back  to  life,  affirm  that  the  girl  was  careless 
and  deserved  her  fate.  Others,  who  believe  in  the 
God-law,  maintain  that  the  engine  is  run  not  to  kill 
but  to  protect,  not  to  maim  but  to  educate,  and 
that  the  fault  lies  in  the  wrong  application  of  the 
force,  not  in  the  force  itself. 

So  it  was  with  this  old  man.  Eleven  months  and 
ten  days  before  this  day  of  his  second  trial  (eleven 
months  and  three  days  when  I  first  saw  him),  a 
flying-belt  set  in  motion  up  in  his  own  mountain- 
home  had  caught  and  crushed  him.  To-day  he  was 
still  in  the  maw  of  the  machinery,  his  courage 
gone,  his  spirit  broken,  his  heart  torn.  The  group 
about  his  body,  not  being  a  sympathetic  group, 
were  insisting  that  the  engine  could  do  no  wrong  \ 
that  the  victim  was  not  a  victim  at  all,  but  lawful 
material  to  be  ground  up.  This  theory  was  sus 
tained  by  the  District  Attorney.  Every  day  he 
must  have  fresh  materials.  The  engine  must  run. 
The  machinery  must  be  fed. 

And  his  record  ? 

63 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

Ah,  how  often  is  this  so  in  the  law ! — his  record 
must  be  kept  good. 

After  the  whiskey  had  heen  held  up  to  the  light 
and  the  dime  fingered,  the  old  man's  attorney — 
a  young  lawyer  from  the  old  man's  own  town,  a 
smooth-faced  young  fellow  who  had  the  gentle 
look  of  a  hospital  nurse  and  who  was  doing  his 
best  to  bring  the  broken  body  back  to  life  and  free 
dom — put  the  victim  on  the  stand. 

"Tell  the  jury  exactly  how  it  all  happened,"  he 
said,  "and  in  your  own  way,  just  as  you  told  it 
to  me." 

"I'll  try,  sir;  I'll  do  my  best."  It  was  Eip's 
voice,  only  fainter.  He  tugged  at  his  collar  as 
if  to  breathe  the  easier,  cleared  his  throat  and  be 
gan  again.  "I  ain't  never  been  in  a  place  like  this 
but  once  before,  and  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me  if 
I  make  any  mistakes,"  and  he  looked  about  the 
room,  a  flickering,  half-burnt-out  smile  trembling 
on  his  lips. 

"Well,  I  got  a  piece  of  land  'bout  two  miles 
back  of  my  place  that  belongs  to  my  wife,  and  I 
ain't  never  fenced  it  in,  for  I  ain't  never  had  no 
time  somehow  to  cut  the  timber  to  do  it,  she's  been 
so  sickly  lately.  'Bout  a  year  ago  I  was  goin'  'long 
toward  Hi  Stephens's  mill  a-lookin'  for  muskrats 
when  I  heard  some  feller's  axe  a-workin'  away, 
and  I  says  to  Hi,  'Hi,  ain't  that  choppin'  goin'  on 
on  the  wife's  land  ?'  and  he  said  it  was,  and  that 

64 


"ELEVEN   MONTHS   AND   TEN   DAYS" 

Luke  Shanders  and  his  boys  had  been  drawin'  out 
cross-ties  for  the  new  railroad ;  thought  I  knowed 
it. 

"Well,  I  kep'  'long  up  and  come  on  Luke  jes's 
he  was  throwin'  the  las'  stick  onto  his  wagon.  He 
kinder  started  when  he  see  me,  jumped  on  and 
begin  to  drive  off.  I  says  to  him,  'Luke,'  I  says, 
'I  ain't  got  no  objection  to  you  havin'  a  load  of 
wood ;  there's  plenty  of  it ;  but  it  don't  seem  right 
for  you  to  take  it  'thout  askin',  'specially  since  the 
wife's  kind  o'  peaked  and  it's  her  land  and  not 
yourn.'  He  hauled  the  team  back  on  their  hind 
legs,  and  he  says: 

"  'When  I  see  fit  to  ask  you  or  your  old  woman's 
leave  to  cut  timber  on  my  own  land,  I  will.  Me 
and  Lawyer  Eillmore  has  been  a-lookin'  into 
them  deeds,  and  this  timber  is  mine;'  and  he 
driv  off. 

"I  come  along  home  and  studied  'bout  it  a  bit, 
and  me  and  the  wife  talked  it  over.  We  didn't 
want  to  make  no  fuss,  but  we  knowed  he  was  a- 
lyin',  but  that  ain't  no  unusual  thing  for  Luke 
Shanders. 

"Well,  the  nex*  mornin'  I  got  into  Pondville 
'bout  eight  o'clock  and  set  a-waitin'  till  Lawyer 
Fillmore  come  in.  He  looked  kind  o'  shamefaced 
when  he  see  me,  and  I  says,  'What's  this  Luke 
Shanders's  been  a-tellin'  me  'bout  your  sayin'  my 
wife's  timberland  is  hisn  ?' 

"Then  he  began  'splainin'  that  the  'riginal  lines 
65 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

was  drawed  wrong  and  that  old  man  Shanders's 
land,  Luke's  father,  run  to  the  brook  and  took  in 
all  the  white  oak  on  the  wife's  lot  and " 

The  buzzard  sprang  to  his  feet  and  shrieked 
out: 

"Your  Honor,  I  object  to  this  rigmarole.  Tell 
the  jury  right  away" — and  he  faced  the  prisoner 
— "what  you  know  about  this  glass  of  whiskey. 
Get  right  down  to  the  facts;  we're  not  cutting 
cross-ties  in  this  court." 

The  old  man  caught  his  breath,  placed  his  fin 
gers  suddenly  to  his  lips  as  if  to  choke  back  the 
forbidden  words,  and,  in  an  apologetic  voice,  mur 
mured  : 

"I'm  gettin'  there's  fast's  I  kin,  sir,  'deed  I 
am ;  I  ain't  hidin'  nothin'." 

He  wasn't.    Anyone  could  see  it  in  his  face. 

"Better  let  him  go  on  in  his  own  way,"  remarked 
the  Judge,  indifferently.  His  Honor  was  looking 
over  some  papers,  and  the  monotonous  tones  of  the 
witness  diverted  attention.  Most  of  the  jury,  too, 
had  already  lost  interest  in  the  story.  One  of  the 
younger  members  had  settled  himself  in  his  chair, 
thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  stretched  out  his 
legs,  and  had  shut  his  eyes  as  if  to  take  a  nap. 
Nothing  so  far  had  implicated  either  the  whiskey 
or  the  dime ;  when  it  did  he  would  wake  up. 

The  old  man  turned  a  grateful  glance  toward  the 
Judge,  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  and  with  bent 
head  looked  about  him  on  the  floor  as  if  trying  to 

66 


"ELEVEN   MONTHS   AND   TEN   DAYS" 

pick  up  the  lost  end  of  his  story.  The  young  attor 
ney,  in  an  encouraging  tone,  helped  him  find  it 
with  a  question: 

"When  did  you  next  see  Mr.  Fillmore  and  Luke 
Shanders  ?" 

"When  the  trial  come  off,"  answered  the  old 
man,  raising  his  head  again.  "Course  we  couldn't 
lose  the  land.  'Twarn't  worth  much  till  the  new 
railroad  come  through;  then  the  oak  come  handy 
for  cross-ties.  That's  what  set  Fillmore  and  Luke 
Shanders  onto  it. 

"When  the  case  was  tried,  the  Judge  seed  they 
couldn't  bring  no  'riginal  deed  'cept  one  showin' 
that  Luke  Shanders  and  Fillmore  was  partners  in 
the  steal,  and  the  Judge  'lowed  they'd  have  to  pay 
for  the  timber  they  cut  and  hauled  away. 

"They  went  round  then  a-sayin'  they'd  get  even, 
though  wife  and  I  'lowed  we'd  take  anything  rea 
sonable  for  what  hurt  they  done  us.  And  that 
went  on  till  one  day  'bout  a  year  ago  Luke  come 
into  my  place  and  said  he  and  Lawyer  Fillmore 
would  be  over  the  next  day ;  that  they  was  tired  o' 
fightin',  and  that  if  I  was  willin'  to  settle  they 
was. 

"One  o'  the  new  Gov'ment  dep'ties  was  sittin' 
in  my  room  at  the  time.  He  was  goin'  'long  up 
to  town-court,  he  said,  and  had  jest  drapped  in  to 
pass  the  time  o'  day.  There  he  is  sittin'  over 
there,"  and  he  pointed  to  his  captor. 

"I  hadn't  never  seen  him  before,  though  I  know 
67 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

a  good  many  of  'em,  but  he  showed  me  his  badge, 
and  I  knowed  who  he  was. 

"The  nex'  mornin'  Lawyer  Fillmore  and  Luke 
stopped  outside  and  hollered  for  me  to  come  out. 
I  wanted  'em  to  come  in.  Wife  had  baked  some 
biscuit  and  we  was  determined  to  be  sociable-like, 
now  that  they  was  willin'  to  do  what  was  fair, 
and  I  'lowed  they  must  drive  up  and  git  out.  They 
said  that  that's  what  they  come  for,  only  that  they 
had  to  go  a  piece  down  the  road,  and  they'd  be  back 
agin  in  a  half-hour  with  the  money. 

"Then  Luke  Shanders  'lowed  he  was  cold,  and 
asked  if  I  had  a  drap  o'  whiskey." 

At  mention  of  the  all-important  word  a  visible 
stir  took  place  in  the  court-room.  The  young  man 
with  the  closed  eyes  opened  them  and  sat  up  in 
his  chair.  The  jury  ceased  whispering  to  one  an 
other  ;  the  Judge  pushed  his  spectacles  back  on  his 
forehead  and  moved  his  papers  aside ;  the  buzzard 
stretched  his  long  neck  an  inch  farther  out  of  his 
shirt-collar  and  lowered  his  head  in  attention.  The 
spigot,  which  up  to  this  time  had  run  only  "empty 
ings,"  was  now  giving  out  the  clear  juice  of  the 
wine-vat.  Each  man  bent  his  tin  cup  of  an  ear  to 
catch  it.  The  old  man  noticed  the  movement  and 
looked  about  him  anxiously,  as  if  dreading  another 
rebuff.  He  started  to  speak,  cleared  his  throat, 
pulled  nervously  at  his  beard  for  a  moment,  glanc 
ing  furtively  about  the  room,  and  in  a  lower  tone 
repeated  the  words : 

68 


"ELEVEN   MONTHS   AND  TEN   DAYS" 

"Asked  if  I  had  a  drap  o'  whiskey.  Well,  F 
always  take  a  dram  when  I  want  it,  and  I  had  some 
prime  stuff  my  son  Ned  had  sent  me  over  from 
Frankfort,  so  I  went  back  and  poured  out  'bout 
four  fingers  in  a  glass,  and  took  it  out  to  him. 

"After  he  drunk  it  he  handed  me  back  the  glass 
and  driv  off,  sayin'  he'd  be  round  later.  I  took  the 
glass  into  the  house  agin  and  sot  it  'longside  the 
bottle  011  the  mantel,  and  when  I  turned  round 
there  sot  the  Gov'ment  dep'ty.  He'd  come  in,  wife 
said,  while  I  was  talkin'  with  Luke  in  the  road. 
When  he  see  the  glass  he  asked  if  I  had  a  license, 
and  I  told  him  I  didn't  sell  no  liquor,  and  he  asked 
me  what  that  was,  and  I  told  him  it  was  whiskey, 
and  then  he  got  the  bottle  and  took  a  smell  of  it, 
and  then  he  held  up  the  glass  and  turned  it  upside 
down  and  out  drapped  a  ten-cent  piece.  Then  he 
'rested  me !" 

The  jury  was  all  attention  now ;  the  several  ex 
hibits  were  coming  into  view.  One  fat,  red-faced 
juror,  who  had  a  dyed  mustache  and  looked  like 
a  sporting  man,  would  have  laughed  outright  had 
not  the  Judge  checked  him  with  a  stern  look. 

"You  didn't  put  the  dime  there,  did  you  ?"  the 
young  attorney  asked,  in  a  tone  that  implied  a 
negative  answer. 

"No,  sir ;  I  don't  take  no  money  for  what  I  give 
a  man."  This  came  with  a  slight  touch  of  indigna 
tion. 

"Do  you  know  who  put  it  there  ?" 
69 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

"Well,  there  warn't  nobody  but  Luke  Slianders 
-could  V  done  it,  'cause  nobody  had  the  glass  but 
him.  I  heard  since  that  it  was  all  a  put-up  job, 
that  they  had  swore  I  kep'  a  roadside,  and  they 
had  sot  the  dep'ty  onto  me;  but  I  don't  like  to 
think  men  kin  be  so  mean,  and  I  ain't  a-sayin'  it 
now.  If  they  knew  what  I've  suffered  for  what 
they  done  to  me,  they  couldn't  help  but  feel  sorry 
for  me  if  they're  human." 

He  stopped  and  passed  his  hands  wearily  over 
his  forehead.  The  jury  sat  still,  their  eyes  riveted 
on  the  speaker.  Even  the  red-faced  man  was  lis 
tening  now. 

For  an  instant  there  was  a  pause.  Then  the  old 
man  reached  forward  in  his  seat,  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  his  hands  held  out  as  if  in  appeal,  and  in  a 
low,  pleading  tone  addressed  the  jury.  Strange 
to  say,  neither  the  buzzard  nor  the  Judge  inter 
rupted  the  unusual  proceeding : 

"Men,  I  hope  you  will  let  me  go  home  now; 
won't  you,  please  ?  I  ain't  never  been  'customed 
all  my  life  to  bein'  shut  up,  and  it  comes  purty 
hard,  not  bein'  so  young  as  I  was.  I  ain't  findin' 
no  fault,  but  it  don't  seem  to  me  I  ever  done  any- 
thin'  to  deserve  all  that's  come  to  me  lately.  I  got 
'long  best  way  I  could  over  there" — and  he  pointed 
in  the  direction  of  the  steel  cages — "till  las'  week, 
when  Sam  Jelliff  come  down  to  see  his  boy  and 
told  me  the  wife  was  took  sick  bad,  worse  than  she's 
been  yet.  She  ain't  used  to  bein'  alone;  you'd 

70 


"ELEVEN   MONTHS   AND  TEN   DAYS" 

know  that  if  you  could  see  her.  The  neighbors 
is  purty  good  to  her,  I  hear,  but  nobody  don't  under 
stand  her  like  me,  she  and  me  bein'  so  long  together 
— mos'  fifty  years  now.  You'll  let  me  go  home, 
won't  you,  men  ?  I  git  so  tired,  so  tired ;  please 
let  me  go." 

The  buzzard  was  on  his  feet  now,  his  arms 
sawing  the  air,  his  strident  voice  filling  the  court 
room. 

He  pleaded  for  the  machine — for  the  safety  of 
the  community,  for  the  majesty  of  the  law.  He 
demanded  instant  conviction  for  this  trickster,  this 
Fagin  among  men,  this  hoary-headed  old  scoundrel 
who  had  insulted  the  intelligence  of  twelve  of  the 
most  upright  men  he  had  ever  seen  in  a  jury-box, 
insulted  them  with  a  tale  that  even  a  child  would 
laugh  at.  When  at  last  he  folded  his  wings, 
hunched  up  his  shoulders  and  sat  down,  and  the 
echoes  of  his  harsh  voice  had  died  away,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  could  hear  vibrating  through  the  room, 
as  one  hears  the  murmur  of  a  brook  after  a  storm, 
the  tender  tones  of  the  old  man  pleading  as  if  for 
his  life. 

,  The  jury  had  listened  to  the  buzzard's  harangue, 
with  their  eyes,  not  with  their  ears.  Down  in 
their  hearts  there  still  rang  the  piteous  words. 
The  man-made  machine  was  breaking  down;  its 
mechanism  out  of  "gear" ;  the  law  that  governed 
it  defective.  The  God-law,  the  law  of  mercy,  was 
being  set  in  motion. 

71 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

The  voice  of  the  Judge  trembled  a  little  as  he 
delivered  his  charge,  as  if  somehow  a  stray  tear 
had  clogged  the  passage  from  his  heart  to  his  lips. 
In  low,  earnest  tones  that  every  man  strained  his 
ear  to  catch,  he  reviewed  the  testimony  of  the  wit 
nesses,  those  I  had  not  heard ;  took  up  the  uncon- 
tradicted  statement  of  the  Deputy  Marshal  as  evi 
denced  by  the  exhibits  before  them ;  passed  to  the 
motive  behind  the  alleged  conspiracy ;  dwelt  for  a 
moment  on  the  age  and  long  confinement  of  the 
accused,  and  ended  with  the  remark  that  if  they 
believed  his  story  to  be  an  explanation  of  the  facts, 
they  must  acquit  him. 

They  never  left  their  seats.  Even  the  red-faced 
man  voted  out  of  turn  in  his  eagerness.  The 
God-law  had  triumphed!  The  old  man  was 
free. 

The  throng  in  th?  court-room  rose  and  made 
their  way  to  the  doors,  the  old  man  going  first, 
escorted  by  an  officer  to  see  him  safely  outside. 
The  Judge  disappeared  through  a  door;  the  clerk 
lifted  the  lid  of  his  desk  and  stowed  beneath  it  the 
greasy,  ragged  Bible,  stained  with  the  lies  of  a 
thousand  lips.  The  buzzard  crammed  his  hat 
over  his  eyes,  turned,  and  without  a  word  to  any 
one,  stalked  out  of  the  room. 

I  mingled  with  the  motley  throng,  my  ears  alert 
for  any  spoken  opinions.  I  had  seen  the  flying- 
belt  thrown  from  the  machine  and  the  stoppage  of 

73 


"ELEVEN   MONTHS   AND   TEN   DAYS'* 

the  engine.  I  wanted  now  to  learn  something  of 
the  hot  breath  of  the  people  who  had  set  it  in  mo 
tion  eleven  months  and  ten  days  before. 

"Reckon  he'll  cut  a  blue  streak  for  home  now," 
muttered  a  court-lounger,  buttoning  up  his  coat; 
"that  is,  if  he's  got  one.  You'll  never  catch  him 
sellin'  any  more  moonshine." 

"Been  me,  I'd  soaked  him,"  blurted  out  a  corner- 
loafer.  "If  you  can't  convict  one  of  these  clay- 
eaters  when  you've  got  him  dead  to  rights,  ain't 
no  use  havin'  no  justice." 

"I  thought  Tom  [the  buzzard]  would  land  him," 
said  a  stout,  gray-whiskered  lawyer  who  was 
gathering  up  his  papers.  "First  case  Tom's  lost 
this  week.  Goes  pretty  hard  with  him,  you  know, 
when  he  loses  a  case." 

"It  would  have  been  an  outrage,  sir,  if  he  had 
won  it,"  broke  in  a  stranger.  "The  arrest  of 
an  old  man  like  that  on  such  a  charge,  and  his  con 
finement  for  nearly  a  year  in  a  hole  like  that  one 
across  the  street,  is  a  disgrace.  Something  is  rot 
ten  in  the  way  the  laws  are  administered  in  the 
mountains  of  Kentucky,  or  outrages  like  this 
couldn't  occur." 

"He  wouldn't  thank  you,  sir,  for  interfering," 
remarked  a  bystander.  "Being  shut  up  isn't  to 
him  what  it  is  to  you  and  me.  He's  been  taken 
care  of  for  a  year,  hasn't  he  ?  Warmed  and  fed, 
and  got  his  three  meals  a  day.  That's  a  blamed 
sight  more  than  he  gets  at  home.  They're  only 
73 


THE   UNDEK  DOG 

half-human,  these  mountaineers,  anyway.     Don't 
worry;  he's  all  right." 

"You've  struck  it  first  time,"  retorted  the  Dep 
uty  Marshal  who  had  smelled  the  whiskey,  found 
the  dime,  and  slipped  the  handcuffs  on  the  old 
man's  withered  wrists.  "Go  slow,  will  you  ?"  and 
he  faced  the  stranger.  "We  got  to  do  our  duty, 
ain't  we  ?  That's  the  law,  and  there  ain't  no  way 
gittin'  round  it.  And  if  we  make  mistakes,  what 
of  it  ?  We've  got  to  make  mistakes  sometimes,  or 
we  wouldn't  catch  half  of  'em.  The  old  skeesiks 
ought  to  be  glad  to  git  free.  See  ?" 

Suddenly  there  came  to  my  mind  the  realization 
of  the  days  that  were  to  follow  and  all  that  they 
would  bring  to  him  of  shame.  I  thought  of  the 
€old  glance  of  his  neighbors,  the  frightened  stare 
of  the  children  ready  to  run  at  the  approach  of 
the  old  jail-bird,  the  coarse  familiarity  of  the 
tavern  lounger.  Then  the  cruelty  of  it  all  rose 
before  me.  Who  would  recompense  him  for  the 
indignities  he  had  suffered — the  deadly  chill  of  the 
steel  clamps ;  the  long  days  of  suspense ;  the  bitter 
ness  of  the  first  disagreement ;  the  foul  air  of  the 
inferno,  made  doubly  foul  by  close  crowding  of 
filthy  bodies,  inexpressibly  horrible  to  one  who  had 
breathed  all  his  life  the  cool,  pure  air  of  the  open 
with  only  the  big  clean  trees  for  his  comrades  ? 

And  if  at  last  his  neighbors  should  take  pity 
upon  him  and  drive  out  the  men  who  had  wrecked 

74 


"ELEVEN   MONTHS'  AND   TEN   DAYS" 

his  old  age,  and  he  should  wander  once  more  up 
the  brook  with  his  rod  over  his  shoulder,  the  faith 
ful  dog  at  his  heels,  and  a  line  of  the  old  song  still 
alive  in  his  heart,  what  about  those  eleven  months 
and  ten  days  of  which  the  man-law  had  robbed 
him  ? 

O  mighty  machine  !  0  benign,  munificent  law ! 
Law  of  a  people  who  boast  of  mercy  and  truth  and 
equal  rights  and  justice  to  all.  Law  of  a  land  with 
rivers  of  gold  and  mountains  of  silver,  the  sum  of 
its  wealth  astounding  the  world. 

What's  to  be  done  about  it  ? 

Nothing. 

Better  drag  a  dozen  helpless  Samanthy  Norths 
from  their  homes,  their  suckling  babes  in  their 
arms,  and  any  number  of  gray-haired  old  men 
from  their  cabins,  than  waive  one  jot  or  tittle  of 
so  just  a  code ;  and  lose — the  tax  on  whiskey. 


CAP'N   BOB   OF  THE  SCREAMER 


CAP'N   BOB   OF  THE   SCREAMER 

Captain  Bob  Brandt  dropped  in  to-day,  looking 
brown  and  ruddy,  and  filling  my  office  with  a 
breeze  and  freshness  that  seemed  to  have  followed 
him  all  the  way  in  from  the  Gea. 

"Just  in,  Captain?"  I  cried,  springing  to  my 
feet,  my  fingers  closing  round  his — no  more  wel 
come  visitor  than  Captain  Bob  ever  pushes  open 
my  office-door. 

"Yes— Teutonic." 

"Where  did  you  pick  her  up — Fire  Island  ?" 

"]STo ;  'bout  hundred  miles  off  Montauk." 

Captain  Bob  has  been  a  Sandy  Hook  pilot  for 
some  years  back. 

"How  was  the  weather  ?"  I  had  a  chair  ready 
for  him  now  and  was  lifting  the  lid  of  my  desk 
in  search  of  a  box  of  cigars. 

"Pretty  dirty.  Xasty  swell  on,  and  so  thick 
you  could  hack  holes  in  it.  Come  pretty  nigh 
missin'  her" — and  the  Captain  opened  his  big 
storm-coat,  hooked  his  cloth  cap  with  its  ear-tabs 
on  one  prong  of  the  back  of  one  office-chair, 
stretched  his  length  in  another,  and,  bending  for 
ward,  reached  out  his  long,  brawny  arm  for  the 
cigar  I  was  extending  toward  him. 

79 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

I  haye  described  this  sea-dog  before — as  a 
younger  sea-dog — twenty  years  younger,  in  fact. 
He  was  in  my  employ  then — he  and  his  sloop 
Screamer.  Every  big  foundation  stone  that  Caleb 
set  in  Shark  Ledge  Light — the  one  off  Keyport 
harbor — can  tell  you  about  them  both. 

In  those  light-house  days  this  Captain  Bob  was 
"a  tall,  straight,  blue-eyed  young  fellow  of  twenty- 
two,  with  a  face  like  an  open  book — one  of  those 
perfectly  simple,  absolutely  fearless,  alert  men. 
found  so  often  on  the  New  England  coast,  with 
legs  and  arms  of  steel,  body  of  hickory,  and  hands 
of  whalebone ;  cabin  boy  at  twelve,  common  sailor 
at  sixteen,  first  mate  at  twenty,  and  full  captain 
the  year  he  voted." 

He  is  precisely  the  same  kind  of  man  to-day, 
plus  twenty  years  of  experience.  The  figure  is 
still  the  figure  of  his  youth,  the  hickory  a  little 
better  seasoned,  perhaps,  and  the  steel  and  whale 
bone  a  little  harder,  but  they  have  lost  none  of 
their  spring  and  vitality.  The  ratio  of  promotion 
has  also  been  kept  up.  That  he  should  now  rank 
as  the  most  expert  pilot  on  the  station  was  quite 
to  be  expected.  He  could  have  filled  as  well  a 
commander's  place  on  the  bridge,  had  he  chosen  to 
work  along  those  lines. 

And  the  modesty  of  the  man ! 

Nothing  that  he  has  done,  or  can  still  do,  has 
ever  stretched  his  hat  measure  or  swelled  any  part 
of  his  thinking  apparatus.  The  old  pilot-cap  is 

80 


CAPN  BOB 

still  number  seven,  and  the  sensible  head  beneath 
it  number  seven,  too.  It  could  be  number  eight, 
or  nine,  or  even  ten,  if  it  had  expanded  in  pro 
portion  to  the  heroic  quality  of  many  of  his  deeds. 
During  the  light-house  days,  for  instance,  when 
some  sudden  shift  of  wind  would  churn  the  long 
rollers  into  bobbles  and  then  into  frenzied  seas  that 
smothered  the  Ledge  in  white  suds,  if  a  life-boat 
was  to  be  launched  in  the  boiling  surf,  the  last 
man  to  jump  aboard,  after  a  mighty  push  with  his 
long  hindmost  leg,  was  sure  to  be  this  same  bundle 
of  whalebone  and  hickory.  And  should  this  boat, 
a  few  minutes  later,  go  whirling  along  in  the 
"Race,"  bottom  side  up,  with  every  worker  safe 
astride  her  keel,  principally  because  of  Captain 
Bob's  coolness  and  skill  in  hauling  them  out  of 
the  water,  again  the  last  man  to  crawl  beside  the 
rescued  crew  would  be  this  same  long-legged,  long- 
armed  skipper. 

Or  should  a  guy-rope  snap  with  a  sound  like  a 
pistol-shot,  and  a  great  stone  swung  to  a  boom  and 
weighing  tons  should  begin  running  amuck  through 
piles  of  cement,  machinery,  and  men,  and  some  one 
of  the  working  gang,  seeing  the  danger,  should, 
with  the  quickness  and  sureness  of  a  mountain- 
goat,  spring  straight  for  the  stone,  clutching  the 
end  of  the  guy  and  bounding  off  again,  twisting 
the  bight  round  some  improvised  snubbing-post, 
thus  checking  its  mad  career,  you  would  not  have 
had  to  ask  his  name  twice. 

81 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

"Cap'n  Bob  stopped  -it,  sir,"  was  sure  to  have 
been  the  proffered  reply. 

So,  too,  in  his  present  occupation  of  pilot. 
It  was  only  a  few  years  ago  that  I  stood  on  the 
deck  of  an  incoming  steamer,  straining  my  eyes 
across  a  heaving  sea,  the  horizon  lost  in  the  dull 
haze  of  countless  froth-caps;  we  had  slowed  for  a 
pilot,  so  the  word  came  down  the  deck.  Suddenly, 
against  the  murky  sky-line,  with  mainsail  double- 
reefed  and  jib  close-hauled,  loomed  a  light  craft 
plunging  bows  under  at  every  lurch.  Then  a  chip 
the  size  of  your  hand  broke  away  from  the  frail 
vessel,  and  a  big  wave  lying  around  for  such  prey, 
sprang  upon  it  with  wide-open  mouth.  The  tiny 
bit  dodged  and  slipped  out  of  sight  into  a  mighty 
ravine,  then  mounted  high  in  air,  upborne  in  the 
teeth  of  another  great  monster,  and  again  was  lost 
to  view.  Soon  the  chip  became  a  bit  of  driftwood 
manned  by  two  toy  men  working  two  toy  oars  like 
mad  and  bearing  at  one  end  a  yellow  dot. 

Then  the  first  officer  walked  down  the  deck  to 
where  I  stood,  followed  by  a  huddle  of  seamen  who 
began  unrolling  a  rope  ladder. 

"You're  right,"  I  heard  an  officer  answer  a  pas 
senger.  "It's  no  fit  weather  to  take  a  pilot.  Cap 
tain  wouldn't  have  stopped  for  any  other  boat  but 
No.  11.  But  those  fellows  out  there  don't  know 
what  weather  is." 

The  bit  of  driftwood  now  developed  into  a  yawl. 
The  yellow  dot  broadened  and  lengthened  to  the 
8? 


CAP'X   BOB 

semblance  of  a  man  standing  erect  and  unbutton 
ing  his  oil-skins  as  he  looked  straight  at  the  steamer 
rolling  port-holes  under,  the  rope  ladder  flopping 
against  her  side.  Then  came  a  quick  twist  of  the 
oars,  a  sudden  lull  as  the  yawl  shot  within  a  boat's 
length  of  the  rope  ladder,  and  with  the  spring  of 
a  cat  the  man  in  oil-skins  landed  with  both  feet  on 
its  lower  rung,  and  the  next  instant  he  was  over 
the  steamer's  rail  and  on  her  deck  beside  me. 

I  thought  I  knew  that  spring,  even  before  I 
saw  his  face  or  got  hold  of  his  hand. 

It  was  Captain  Bob. 

As  I  look  at  him  now,  sitting  in  my  office-chair, 
the  smoke  of  the  cigar  curling  about  his  bronzed, 
weather-tanned  face,  my  eye  taking  in  his  slim 
waist,  slender  thighs,  and  long,  sinewy  arms  and 
hands  that  have  served  him  so  well  all  his  life,  I 
can  hardly  believe  that  twenty  years  have  passed 
over  his  head  since  we  worked  together  on  Shark 
Ledge.  But  for  the  marks  chalked  on  his  temples 
by  the  Old  Man  with  the  Hour-glass  and  the  few 
tally-scores  of  hard  work  crossing  the  corners  of 
his  mouth  and  eyes,  he  has  the  same  external  ap 
pearance  as  in  the, old  days.  Even  these  indexes 
of  advancing  years*  are  lost  when  he  throws  his 
head  up  and  laughs  one  of  his  spontaneous,  ring 
ing  laughs  that  fills  my  office  full  of  sunshine, 
illumining  it  for  hours  after  he  has  gone. 

"This  pilotin'  's  pretty  rough  sometimes,"  Cap 
tain  Bob  continued  between  the  puffs  of  smoke, 

83 


THE   UKDEK  DOG 

"but  it  ain't  nothin'  to  the  old  days.  When  I  look 
back  on  it  all,  seems  to  me  as  if  we  was  out  o'  our 
heads  most  o'  the  time.  I  didn't  know  it  then, 
but  'twas  true  all  the  same.  Think  now  o'  layin' 
the  Screamer  broadside  on  that  stone  pile  at  Shark 
Ledge,  unloadin'  them  stone  with  nothin'  but  a 
couple  o'  spar  buoys  to  keep  'er  off.  Wonder  I 
didn't  leave  'er  bones  there.  Would  if  I  hadn't 
knowed  every  stick  o'  timber  in  'er  and  jest  what 
she  could  stagger  under." 

"But  she  was  a  good  sea-boat,"  I  interpolated. 
"The  Screamer  was  always  the  pride  of  the  work." 

"Xone  better.  You'd  a-thought  so  if  you'd  been 
with  us  that  night  off  Hatteras;  we  layin'  to, 
hatches  battened  down.  I  never  see  it  blow  wuss. 
It  came  out  o'  the  nor'west  'bout  dark,  and  'fore 
mornin'  I  tell  ye  it  was  a-humpin'  things.  We 
started  with  a  pretty  decent  set  o'  sails,  new  eye 
lets  rove  in  and  new  clew  lines,  but,  Lord  love  ye, 
we  hadn't  taken  old  Hatteras  into  consideration. 
Bill  Kevins,  my  engineer,  and  a  landsman  who  was 
to  work  the  h'istin'  engine,  looked  kind  'er  peaked 
when  what  was  left  of  the  jib  come  rattlin'  down 
on  his  fo'c's'le  hatch,  but  I  says  to  him,  'the 
Screamer's  all  right,  Billy,  so  she  don't  strike 
nothin'  and  so  long's  we  can  keep  the  water  out  'er. 
Can't  sink  'er  any  more'n  an  empty  five-gallon 
ker'sene  can  with  the  cork  in.  We'll  lay  'round 
here  till  mornin'  and  then  set  a  signal.  Some- 
thing'll  come  along  pretty  soon.'  Sure  'nough, 

84 


CAFK  BOB 

'long  oome  a  coaler  bound  for  Charleston.  She 
see  us  a-wallowin'  in  the  trough  and  our  mast 
thrashin'  for  all  it  was  worth. 

"  'What  d'ye  want  ?'  the  skipper  says,  when  he 
got  within  hail. 

"  'Some  sail-needles  and  a  ball  o'  twine/  I  hol 
lered  back ;  'we  got  everything  else.'  You  should 
just  a-heard  him  cuss — "  and  one  of  Captain  Bob's 
laughs  rang  through  the  room.  "Them's  two 
things  I'd  forgot — didn't  think  o'  them  in  fact  till 
the  mainsheet  give  'way. 

"Well,  he  chucked  'em  aboard  with  another  cuss. 
I  hadn't  no  money  to  pay  no  salvage.  All  we 
wanted  was  them  needles  and  a  little  elbow-grease 
and  gumption.  So  we  started  in,  and  'fore  night, 
she  still  a-thrashin',  I'd  fixed  up  the  sails,  patched 
the  eyelets  with  a  pair  o'  boot-legs,  and  was  off 
again." 

"What  were  you  doing  off  Hatteras,  Captain 
Bob  ?"  I  asked.  I  was  leading  him  on,  professing 
ignorance  of  minor  details,  so  that  I  could  again 
enjoy  the  delight  of  hearing  him  tell  it. 

"Oh,  that  was  another  one  o'  them  crazy  jobs  I 
used  to  take  when  I  didn't  know  no  better.  Why, 
I  guess  you  remember  'bout  that  wreckin'  job  off 
Hamilton,  Bermuda  ?" 

He  was  settled  in  his  chair  now,  his  legs  crossed, 
his  head  down  between  his  shoulders. 

"You  see,  after  I  quit  work  on  the  'ledge,'  I  was 
put  to  't  for  a  job,  and  there  come  along  a  feller 

85 


THE   TODEK  DOG 

by  the  name  of  Lamson — the  agent  of  an  insurance 
company,  who  wanted  me  to  go  to  Bermuda  and 
git  up  some  forty-two  pieces  o'  white  I-talian 
marble  that  had  been  wrecked  three  years  before 
off  the  harbor  of  Hamilton.  They  ran  from  three 
to  twenty-one  tons  each,  he  said.  So  off  I  started 
with  the  Screamer.  He  didn't  say,  though,  that 
the  wreck  lay  on  a  coral  reef  eight  miles  from  land, 
or  I'd  stayed  to  home  in  ISTew  Bedford. 

"When  I  got  to  where  the  wreck  lay  you  couldn't 
see  a  thing  'bove  water.  So  I  got  into  an  old  divin' 
dress  we  had  aboard — one  we  used  on  the  Ledge — 
oiled  up  the  pump  and  went  down  to  look  her  over, 
and  by  Jiminy  Criminy,  not  a  scrap  o'  that  wreck 
was  left  'cept  the  rusty  iron  work  and  that  part 
o'  the  bottom  plankin'  of  the  vessel  that  lay  under 
the  stones !  Everything  else  was  eaten  up  with  the 
worms !  Funniest-lookin'  place  you  ever  see.  The 
water  was  just  as  clear  as  air,  and  I  could  see 
every  one  o'  them  stone  plain  as  daylight — looked 
like  so  many  big  lumps  o'  white  sugar  scattered 
'round — and  they  were  big!  One  of  'em  weighed 
twenty-one  tons,  and  none  on  'em  weighed  less'n 
five.  Of  course  I  knew  how  big  they  were  'fore 
I  started,  and  I'd  fitted  up  the  Screamer  special 
to  h'ist  'em,  but  I  didn't  know  I'd  have  to  handle 
'em  twice ;  once  from  where  they  laid  on  that  coral 
reef  in  twenty-eight  feet  o'  water  and  then  unload 
'em  on  the  Navy  Yard  dock,  above  Hamilton,  and 
then  pick  'em  up  agin,  load  'em  'board  the  Scream- 

86 


er,  and  unload  'em  once  more  'board  a  Boston  brig 
they'd  sent  down  for  'em — one  o'  them  high-waist  i 
ed  things  'bout  sixteen  feet  from  the  water-line  to 
the  rail.  That  was  the  wust  part  of  it." 

Captain  Bob  stopped,  felt  in  his  pocket  for  s 
match,  found  it  empty,  rose  from  his  chair,  picked 
one  from  a  match-safe  on  my  desk,  lighted  his 
cigar,  and  resumed  his  seat  again.  I  have  found 
it  wisest  to  let  him -have  his  own  way  in  times  like 
these.  If  I  interrupt  the  flow  of  his  talk  it  may 
stop  for  the  day;  and  I  lose  the  best  part  of  the 
enjoyment  of  having  him  with  me. 

"Pretty  decent  chaps,  them  Englishmen" — puff- 
puff — the  volume  of  smoke  was  all  right  once  more. 
"One  Monday  morning  I  ran  out  of  the  Navy  Yard 
dock  within  sight  of  the  wreck.  I  had  been  layin' 
up  over  Sunday  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  a  norther, 
when  I  luffed  a  little  too  soon,  and  bang  went  my 
bowsprit  and  scraped  off  about  three  feet  of  red 
paint  from  the  end  of  the  dock.  One  of  the  watch 
men  was  on  the  string-piece,  and  saw  the  whole 
thing.  'Come  ashore/  he  says,  'and  go  and  see  the 
Admiral;  you  can't  scrape  no  paint  off  this  dock 
with  my  permission.' 

"Well,  I  waited  four  hours  for  his  nibs.  When 
he  come  to  his  office  quarters  he  was  'bout  up  to 
my  arms,  red  as  a  can-buoy,  and  white  hair  stickin' 
up  straight  as  a  shoe-brush  on  his  head.  He  looked 
cross  enough  to  bite  a  tenpenny  nail  in  two. 

"  'Ran  into  the  dock,  did  ye — ran  into  Her 
87 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

Majesty's  dock,  and  ye  had  room  enough  to  turn  a 
fleet  in !  Do  you  think  we  paint  these  docks  for 
the  fun  of  havin'  you  lubbers  scrape  it  off  ?  You'll 
pay  for  paintin'  it  over,  sir — that's  what  you'll  do, 
or  I'll  libel  your  boat,  and  send  a  file  of  marines 
down  and  tie  her  up,'  and  away  he  went  up  the 
dock  to  his  office  again. 

"  'Gosh !'  I  said  to  myself.  'Guess  I'm  in  a  fix.' 
The  boys  stood  around  and  heard  every  word,  and 
I  tell  ye  it  warn't  no  joke.  As  to  money,  there 
warn't  a  ten-dollar  bill  in  the  crew.  I'd  spent 
every  cent  I  could  rake  and  scrape  to  fit  the 
Screamer  out,  and  the  boys  were  workin'  on  shares, 
and  nobody  was  to  get  any  money  until  the  last 
stone — that  big  twenty-one-ton  feller — was  'board 
the  brig.  Then  I  could  go  to  the  agents  in  Hamil 
ton  and  draw  two-thirds  of  my  contract.  That 
twenty-one-ton  chunk,  I  forgot  to  tell  ye,  I  had 
picked  up  the  day  before,  and  it  was  then  aboard 
the  Screamer,  and  we  was  on  our  way  down  to 
Hamilton,  where  the  brig  lay,  when  her  nose 
scraped  off  the  Admiral's  paint. 

"It  did  look  kind  o'  nasty  for  us,  and  no  mis 
take.  One  day  more,  and  we'd  V  been  through 
and  had  our  money. 

"  'Go  up  and  see  him,'  said  the  watchman.  'He 
gits  cool  sometimes  as  sudden  as  he  gits  hot.'  So 
Bill  Nevins,  my  engineer,  who  was  workin'  the 
h'ister,  and  I  went  up.  The  old  feller  was  sittin' 
on  the  piazza  in  a  big  rattan  chair. 

88 


CAPN  BOB 

"  'Come  aboard,'  he  hollered,  soon's  he  see  Bill 
and  me  a-standin'  in  the  garden-path  with  our  hats 
off,  lookin'  like  two  jailbirds  about  to  be  sentenced. 
Well,  we  got  up  on  the  porch,  and  he  looked  us  all 
over,  and  said: 

"  'Have  you  got  that  money  with  you  ?'  'No/ 
I  said,  'I  haven't,'  and  I  ups  and  tells  him  just  how 
we  was  fixed,  and  how  we  had  worked,  and  how 
short  we  was  of  grub  and  clothes  and  money,  and 
then  I  said,  'an'  now  I  come  to  tell  ye  that  I  hit  the 
dock  fair  and  square,  and  it  was  all  my  fault,  and 
that  I'll  pay  whatever  you  say  is  right  when  I  put 
this  stone  'board  and  get  my  pay.' 

"He  looked  me  all  over — I  tell  you  I  was  pretty 
ragged ;  nothin'  but  a  shirt  and  pants  on,  and  they 
was  almighty  tore  up,  especially  where  most  every 
body  wants  to  be  covered — and  Bill  was  no  better. 
We'd  'bout  used  up  our  clo'es  so  that  sail-needles 
nor  nothin'  else  wouldn't  a-done  us  no  good,  and  we 
had  no  time  nor  no  spare  cash  to  go  ashore  and 
get  others. 

"While  I  was  a-talkin',  the  old  feller's  eyes  was 
a-borin'  into  mine — then  he  roared  out,  'No,  sir; 
you  won't! — you  won't  pay  one  d — d  shillin',  sir. 
You'll  go  back  to  your  work,  and  if  there's  any 
thing  you  want  in  the  way  of  grub  or  supplies  send 
here  for  it  and  you  shall  have  it.  Good-day.'  I 
tell  ye  he  was  a  rum  one." 

"Was  that  the  last  time  you  saw  him?"  I 
asked. 

89 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

"Not  much.  When  we  got  'longside  the  brig  the 
next  day,  her  Cap'n  see  that  twenty-one-ton  stone 
settin'  up  on  the  deck  of  the  Screamer,  lookin'  like 
a  big  white  church,  and  he  got  so  scared  he  went 
ashore  and  started  a  yarn  that  we  couldn't  lift  that 
stone  sixteen  feet  in  the  air,  and  over  her  rail  and 
down  into  the  hold,  and  that  we'd  smash  his  brig, 
and  it  got  to  the  Admiral's  ears,  and  down  come 
two  English  engineers,  in  cork  helmets  and  white 
jackets  and  gold  buttons,  spic'  an'  span  as  if  they'd 
stepped  out  of  the  chart-room  of  a  yacht.  One  was 
a  colonel  and  the  other  was  a  major.  They  were 
both  just  back  from  India,  and  natty-lookin'  chaps 
as  you  ever  saw.  And  clear  stuff  all  the  way 
through — you  could  tell  that  before  they  opened 
their  mouths. 

"I  was  on  the  deck  of  the  Screamer,  overhaulin' 
the  fall,  surrounded  by  most  of  the  crew,  gettin* 
ready  to  h'ist  the  stone,  when  I  first  saw  'em.  They 
and  the  Cap'n  were  away  up  above  me,  leanin'  over 
the  rail,  lookin'  at  the  stone  church  that  some  o'  the 
boys  was  puttin'  the  chains  'round.  Bill  Kevins 
was  down  in  the  fo'c's'le,  firin'  up,  with  the  safety- 
valve  set  at  125  pounds.  He  had  half  a  keg  o' 
rosin  and  a  can  o'  kerosene  to  help  out  with  in  case 
we  wanted  a  few  pounds  extry  in  the  middle  of  the 
tea-party.  Pretty  soon  I  heard  one  of  'em  holler : 

"  'Ahoy !     Is  the  Captain  aboard  ?' 

"  'He  is,'  I  said,  steppin'  out.  'Who  wants 
him?' 

90 


CAPST   BOB 

"  'Colonel  Throckmorton,'  lie  says,  'and  Major 
Severn.' 

"  'Come  aboard,  gentlemen/  I  says. 

"So  down  they  come,  the  Colonel  first,  one  foot 
at  a  time  touchin'  the  ladder,  the  Major  following. 
When  he  reached  the  deck  and  wheeled  around  to 
look  at  me  you  just  ought  to  have  seen  his  face. 

"  'Are  you  the  Captain  ?'  he  says,  and  he  looked 
me  over  'bout  as  the  admiral  had  done. 

"  'I  be,'  I  said,  'Captain  Eobert  Brandt,  of  Pig 
eon  Cove,  Cape  Ann,  master  and  owner  of  the 
sloop  Screamer,  at  your  service' — I  kep'  front  side 
to  him.  'What  can  I  do  for  you  ?' 

"  'Well,  Captain,'  he  began,  'perhaps  it  is  none 
of  our  business,  but  the  Captain  of  the  brig  here,' 
and  he  pointed  up  above  him,  'has  asked  us  to  look 
over  your  tackle  and  see  whether  it  is  safe  enough 
to  lift  this  stone.  He's  afraid  you'll  drop  it  and 
smash  his  deck  in.  Since  I've  seen  it,  and  what 
you  propose  to  lift  it  with,  I've  told  him  there's  no 
danger,  for  you'll  never  get  it  off  the  deck.  We 
are  both  officers  of  the  Engineering  Corps,  and  it 
is  our  business  to  know  about  such  things.' 

"  'What  makes  you  think  the  Screamer  won't 
lift  it  ?'  I  asked. 

"  'Well,'  says  the  Colonel,  looking  aloft,  'her 
boom  ain't  big  enough,  and  that  Manila  rope  is  too 
light.  I  should  think  it  wasn't  over  three  and 
three-quarter-inch  rope.  We  all  know  fifteen  tons 
is  enough  weight  for  that  size  rope,  even  with  a 

91 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

fourfold  purchase,  and  we  understand  you  say  this 
stone  weighs  twenty-one.' 

"  'I'm  sorry,  gentlemen/  I  said,  'and  if  you  are 
worried  about  it  you'd  better  go  'board  the  brig, 
for  I'm  about  ready  to  pick  the  stone  up  and  land 
her.' 

"Well,  the  Major  said  he  guessed  he  would,  if 
I  was  determined  to  pull  the  mast  out  of  my 
sloop,  but  the  Colonel  said  he'd  stay  by  and  see 
it  out. 

"Just  then  Bill  ISTevins  stuck  his  head  out  of  the 
fo'c's'le.  He  was  blacker  than  I  was ;  all  smeared 
with  grease  and  stripped  to  his  waist.  It  was  hot 
enough  anywhere,  but  it  was  sizzlin'  down  where 
he  was. 

"  'All  ready,  Cap'n,'  he  says.  'She's  got  every 
pound  she  can  carry.' 

"I  looked  everything  over — saw  the  butt  of  the 
boom  was  playin'  free  in  the  wooden  socket, 
chucked  in  a  lot  of  tallow  so  it  could  move  easy, 
give  an  extra  twist  to  the  end  of  the  guy,  and  hol 
lered  to  Bill  to  go  ahead.  She  went  chuckety- 
chuck,  chuckety -chuck  for  half  a  dozen  turns; 
then  she  slowed  down  soon  as  she  struck  the  full 
weight,  and  began  to  pant  like  an  old  horse  climb- 
in'  a  hill.  All  this  time  the  Colonel  was  callin' 
out  from  where  he  stood  near  the  tiller:  'She'll 
never  lift  it,  Captain — she'll  never  lift  it.' 

"Next  come  a  scrapin'  'long  the  deck,  and 
the  big  stone  swung  clear  with  a  foot  o'  daylight 

92 


CAP'N  BOB 

'tween  it  and  the  deck.  Then  up  she  went,  crawl- 
in'  slowly  inch  by  inch,  till  she  reached  the  height 
of  the  brig's  rail. 

"Xow  come  the  wrist  part.  I  knew  that  when 
I  gave  orders  to  slack  away  the  guy-rope  so  as  to 
swing  the  stone  aboard  the  brig,  the  Screamer 
would  list  over  and  dip  her  rail  in  the  water.  So 
I  made  a  jump  for  the  rope  ladder  and  shinned 
up  the  brig's  side  so  as  to  take  a  hand  in  landin' 
the  stone  properly  on  the  brig's  deck  so  as  to  save 
her  beams  and  break  the  jar  when  I  lowered  the 
stone  down.  I  had  one  eye  now  on  the  stone  and 
the  other  on  the  water,  which  was  curling  over  the 
Screamer's  rail  and  makin'  for  the  fo'c's'le  hatch. 
Should  the  water  pour  down  this  hatch,  out  would 
go  my  fires  and  maybe  up  would  come  her  b'iler. 

"  'Ease  away  on  that  guy  and  lower  away  easy,' 
I  hollered  to  Bill.  The  stone  dropped  to  within 
two  feet  of  the  brig's  deck  and  swung  back  and 
for'ards.  Then  I  heard  Bill  yell.  I  was  expectin' 
it. 

"  'Water's  comin'  in !' 

"I  leaned  over  the  brig's  rail  and  could  see  the 
slop  of  the  sea  combin'  over  the  Screamer's  fo'c's'le 
hatch.  Bill's  fires  would  be  out  the  next  minute. 
There  was  just  two  feet  now  'tween  the  stone  and 
the  deck  where  I  stood — too  much  to  drop;  but 
there  was  nothing  else  to  do,  and  I  hollered : 

"  'All  gone.' 

"Down  she  come  with  a  run,  struck  the  big  tim- 
93 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

bers  on  the  deck,  and  by  Jiminy !  ye  could  a-heard 
that  old  brig  groan  from  stem  to  stern. 

"I  jumped  on  top  of  the  stone  and  threw  off  the 
shackles,  and  the  Screamer  came  up  on  an  even 
keel  as  easy  as  a  duck  ridin'  the  water. 

"You  just  oughter  seen  the  Colonel  when  the  old 
boat  righted  herself,  and  he  had  climbed  up  and 
stood  'longside  the  Major  a-talkin'  it  over. 

"Pretty  soon  he  came  up  to  where  I  was  a-gettin' 
the  tackle  ready  to  lower  the  stone  in  the  hold,  and 
he  says : 

"  'Well,  you  made  your  word  good,  Cap'n,  but 
I  want  to  tell  you  that  nobody  but  an  American 
could  a-done  it.  It  would  cost  me  my  commission 
if  I  should  try  to  do  what  you  have  done.' 

"  'Well,  gentlemen,'  I  says,  'what  was  wrong 
about  it  ?  What's  the  matter  with  the  Screamer's 
rig?' 

"  'Well,  the  size  of  the  rope  for  one  thing,'  says 
the  Colonel,  'and  the  boom.' 

"  'WTell,  p'haps  you  ain't  looked  it  over,'  I  says, 
and  I  began  unravelling  an  end  that  stuck  out  near 
the  shackle.  'If  you'll  look  close  here' — and  I 
held  the  end  of  the  rope  up — 'you'll  see  that  every 
stran'  of  that  rope  is  made  of  the  best  Manila  yarn, 
and  laid  as  smooth  as  silk.  I  stood  over  that  rope 
myself  when  it  was  put  together.  Old  Sam  Han 
son  of  New  Bedford  laid  up  that  rope,  and  there 
ain't  no  better  nowhere.  I  knew  what  it  had  to 
do,  and  I  warn't  goin'  to  take  no  chances  of  its  not 

94 


CAP'N   BOB 

doin'  it  right.  As  to  that  boom,  I  want  to  tell  ye 
that  I  picked  that  boom  out  o'  about  two  hundred 
sticks  in  Tom  Carlin's  shipyard,  in  Stonington, 
and  had  it  scraped  and  ironed  just  to  please  me. 
There  ain't  a  rotten  knot  in  it  from  butt  to  finish, 
and  mighty  few  of  any  other  kind.  That  stick's 
growed  right — that's  what's  the  matter  with  it; 
and  it  bellies  out  in  the  middle,  just  where  it  ought 
to  be  thickest.' 

"Well,  they  didn't  say  nothin'  for  a  while,  'cept 
to  walk  round  the  stone  once  or  twice  and  slap  it 
with  their  hands,  as  if  they  wanted  to  make  sure 
it  was  all  there.  My  men  were  all  over  it  now,  and 
we  was  gettin'  things  in  shape  to  finish  up.  I  tell 
ye  the  boys  were  mighty  glad,  and  so  was  I.  It 
had  been  a  long  pull  of  six  months'  work,  and  we 
were  out  of  most  everything,  and  as  soon  as  the 
big  stone  was  down  in  the  brig's  hold,  and  warped 
back  and  stowed  with  the  others — and  that 
wouldn't  take  but  a  day  or  two  more — we  would 
clean  up,  get  our  money,  and  light  out  for 
home. 

"All  this  time  the  Colonel  and  the  Major  were 
buzzin'  each  other  off  by  the  other  rail.  Pretty 
soon  they  both  come  over  to  where  I  stood,  and 
the  Colonel  reached  out  his  hand. 

"  'Cap'n  Brandt,'  he  says — and  he  had  a  look 
in  h\s  face  as  if  he  meant  it — and  he  did,  every 
word  of  it — 'it  would  give  Major  Severn  and  my 
self  great  pleasure  if  you  would  dine  with  us  to- 

95 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

night  at  the  Canteen.  The  Admiral  is  coming, 
and  some  brother  officers  who  would  be  pleased  to 
know  you.' 

"Well,  I  was  struck  all  of  a  heap  for  a  minute, 
knowing  what  kind  of  clo'es  I  had  to  go  in,  and 
so  I  says: 

"  'Well,  gentlemen,  that's  very  nice  of  you,  and 
I  see  you  mean  it,  and  if  I  had  anything  fittin' 
to  wear  there's  nothin'  I  would  like  better ;  but  ye 
see  how  I'm  fixed,'  and  I  lifted  my  arms  so  he 
could  see  a  few  holes  that  he  might  a-missed  before, 
and  I  motioned  to  some  other  parts  of  my  get-up 
that  needed  repairs. 

"  'That  don't  make  no  difference,  Cap'n,  what 
kind  of  clo'es  you  come  in.  We  dine  at  eight 
o'clock.' 

"Of  course  I  knew  I  couldn't  go,  and  I  didn't 
want  'em  to  think  I  intended  to  go  when  I  didn't, 
so  I  says,  rather  positive-like : 

"  'Very  much  obliged,  gentlemen,  but  I  guess 
I'll  have  to  get  you  to  count  me  out  this  time.'  I 
knowed  I  warn't  fittin'  to  sit  at  anybody's  table, 
especially  if  that  old  Admiral  was  comin'. 

"The  Colonel  see  I  was  in  earnest,  and  he  stepped 
up,  quick-like,  and  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"  'Captain  Brandt,'  he  says,  'we  ain't  worryin* 
'bout  your  clo'es,  and  don't  you  worry.  You  can 
come  in  your  shirt,  you  can  come  in  your  socks, 
or  you  can  come  without  one  damned  rag — only 
come!"' 

96 


CAPN   BOB 

The  Captain  stopped,  shook  the  ashes  from  his 
cigar,  slowly  raised  himself  to  his  feet,  and 
reached  for  his  hat. 

"Did  you  go,  Captain  ?"  I  asked. 

The  Captain  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  with 
one  of  those  quizzical  glances  which  so  often  light 
up  his  face  when  something  amuses  him,  and  said, 
ds  he  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  to  the  ceiling : 

"Well,  I  didn't  forget  my  manners.  When  it 
got  dark — dark,  mind  ye — I  went  up  and  sat  on 
the  piazza  and  had  a  smoke  with  'em — Admiral 
and  all.  But  I  didn't  go  to  dinner — not  in  them 
pants." 


A  PROCESSION   OF    UMBRELLAS 


A  PROCESSION   OF   UMBRELLAS 


This  all  happened  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine, 
above  St.  Cloud — above  Suresne,  in  fact,  or  rather 
its  bridge — the  new  one  that  has  pieced  out  the 
old  one  with  the  quaint  stone  arches  that  we  love. 

A  silver-gray  haze,  a  pure  French  gray,  hung 
over  the  river,  softening  the  sky-line  of  the  near-by 
hills,  and  making  ghosts  of  a  row  of  gendarme  pop 
lars  guarding  the  opposite  bank. 

On  my  side  of  the  stream  wandered  a  path  close 
to  the  water's  edge — so  close  that  I  could  fill  my 
water-cups  without  leaving  my  sketching-stool. 
Over  this  path,  striped  with  shadows,  big  trees  tow 
ered,  their  gnarled  branches  interlaced  above  my 
head.  On  my  right,  rising  out  of  a  green  sward 
cleared  of  all  underbrush,  towered  other  trees, 
their  black  trunks  sharp-cut  against  the  haze.  In 
the  distance,  side  by  side  with  the  path,  wound  the 
river,  still  asleep,  save  where  it  flashed  into  waves 
of  silver  laughter  at  the  touch  of  some  frolicsome 
puff  of  wind.  Elsewhere,  although  the  sun  was 
now  hours  high,  it  dozed  away,  nestling  under  the 
101 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

overhanging  branches  making  their  morning 
toilet  in  its  depths.  But  for  these  long,  straight 
flashes  of  silver  light  glinting  between  the  tree- 
trunks,  one  could  not  tell  where  the  haze  ended  and 
the  river  began. 

As  I  worked  on,  my  white  umbrella  tilted  at  the 
exact  angle  so  that  my  palette,  hand,  and  canvas 
would  be  hidden  from  the  inquisitive  sun,  a  group 
of  figures  emerged  from  a  clump  of  low  trees,  and 
made  their  way  across  the  green  sward — the  man 
in  an  ivory-black  coat,  evidently  a  priest,  even  at 
that  distance;  the  woman  in  a  burnt-umber  dress 
with  a  dot  of  Chinese  white  for  a  head — probably 
a  cap;  and  the  third,  a  girl  of  six  or  eight  in  a 
brown  madder  dress  and  yellow-ochre  hat. 

An  out-door  painter,  while  at  work,  tumbles 
everything  that  crosses  his  path  or  comes  within 
range  of  his  vision  into  the  crucible  of  his  palette. 
The  most  majestic  of  mountains  and  the  softest 
of  summer  clouds  are  to  him  but  flat  washes  of 
cobalt,  and  the  loveliest  of  dimples  on  the  fairest  of 
cheeks  but  a  shadow-tone,  and  a  high  light  made 
real  by  pats  of  indigo  and  vermilion. 

So  in  the  three  figures  went  among  my  trees,  the 
priest  in  the  background  against  a  mass  of  yellow 
light — black  against  yellow  is  always  a  safe  con 
trast;  the  burnt-umber  woman  breaking  the 
straight  line  of  a  trunk,  and  the  child — red  on. 
green — intensifying  a  slash  of  zinober  that  illu 
mined  my  own  grassy  sward. 
102 


Then  my  interest  in  the  group  ceased.  The 
priest,  no  doubt,  was  taking  his  sister,  or  his  aunt, 
or  his  mother,  with  their  own  or  somebody  else's 
little  girl,  out  for  an  airing,  and  they  had  come 
at  the  precise  moment  when  I  had  begun  to  long 
for  just  such  a  collection  of  people ;  and  now  they 
could  take  themselves  off  and  out  of  my  perspec 
tive,  particularly  the  reddish-brown  girl  who  kept 
on  dancing  in  the  sunniest  places,  running  ahead  of 
the  priest  and  the  woman,  lighting  up  and  accentu 
ating  half  a  dozen  other  corners  of  the  wood  in 
terior  before  me  in  as  many  minutes,  and  making 
me  regret  before  the  paint  was  half  dry  on  her 
own  little  figure  that  I  had  not  waited  for  a  better 
composition. 

Then  she  caught  sight  of  my  umbrella. 

She  came  straight  toward  me  with  that  slowing 
of  pace  as  she  approached  the  nearer,  her  curiosity 
getting  the  better  of  her  timidity — quite  as  a  fawn 
or  a  little  calf  would  have  done,  attracted  by  some 
bit  of  color  or  movement  which  was  new  to  it.  The 
brown  madder  dress  I  now  saw  was  dotted  with 
little  spots  of  red,  like  sprays  of  berries ;  the  yel 
low-ochre  hat  was  wound  with  a  blue  ribbon,  and 
tied  with  a  bow  on  one  side.  I  could  see,  too,  that 
she  wore  slippers,  and  that  her  hair  was  platted 
in  two  pig-tails,  and  hung  down  her  back,  the  ends 
fastened  with  a  ribbon  that  matched  the  one  on 
her  hat. 

She  stood  quite  still,  her  face  perfectly  impas- 
103 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

sive,  her  little  hands  clasped  together,  the  brim  of 
her  hat  shading  her  eyes,  which  looked  straight  at 
my  canvas. 

I  gave  no  sign  of  her  presence.  It  is  dangerous 
to  break  down  the  reserve  of  silence,  which  is  often 
the  only  barrier  between  an  out-door  painter  and 
the  crowds  that  surround  him.  Persisted  in,  it 
not  only  compels  their  respect,  even  to  the  lowering 
of  their  voices  and  the  tip-toeing  in  and  out  of  the 
circle  about  you,  but  shortens  the  time  of  their 
visits,  a  consummation  devoutly  to  be  wished.  So 
I  worked  on  in  silence,  never  turning  toward  this 
embodiment  of  one  of  Boutet  de  Monvel's  draw 
ings,  whose  absorbed  face  I  could  see  out  of  one 
corner  of  my  eye. 

Then  a  ripple  of  laughter  broke  the  stillness, 
and  a  little  finger  was  thrust  out,  stopping  within 
a  hair's-breadth  of  the  dot  of  Chinese  white,  still 
wet,  which  topped  my  burnt-umber  figure. 

"Tres  drole,  Monsieur!" 

The  voice  was  sweeter  than  the  laugh.  One  of 
those  flute-like,  bird-throated  voices  that  children 
often  have  who  live  in  the  open  all  their  lives, 
chasing  butterflies  or  gathering  wild  flowers. 

Then  came  a  halloo  from  the  greensward.  The 
priest  was  coming  toward  us,  calling  out,  as  he 
walked : 

"Susette !    Susette !" 

He,  too,  underwent  a  change.  The  long,  ivory- 
black  cassock,  so  unmistakable  in  the  atmospheric 
104 


A   PROCESSION    OF   UMBEELLAS 

perspective,  became  an  ordinary  frock-coat;  the 
white  band  of  a  collar  developed  into  the  regula 
tion  secular  pattern,  and  the  silk  hat,  although  of 
last  year's  shape,  conformed  less  closely  in  its  lines 
to  one  belonging  exclusively  to  the  clergy.  The 
face,  though,  as  I  could  see  in  my  hurried  glance, 
and  even  at  that  distance,  was  the  smooth,  clean 
shaven  face  of  a  priest — the  face  of  a  man  of  fifty, 
I  should  think,  who  had  spent  all  his  life  in  the 
service  of  others. 

Again  came  the  voice,  this  time  quite  near. 

"Susette !    Susette  I" 

The  child,  without  turning  her  head,  waved  her 
hand  in  reply,  looked  earnestly  into  my  face,  and 
with  a  quick  bending  of  one  knee  in  courtesy,  and 
a  "Merci,  M'sieu ;  merci,"  ran  with  all  her  speed 
toward  the  priest,  who  stretched  wide  his  arms, 
half-lifting  her  from  the  ground  in  the  embrace. 
Then  a  smile  broke  over  his  face,  so  joyous,  so  full 
of  love  and  tenderness,  so  much  the  unconscious 
index  of  the  heart  that  prompted  it,  that  I  laid 
down  my  palette  to  watch  them. 

I  have  known  many  priests  in  my  time,  and  I 
have  never  ceased  to  marvel  at  the  beauty  of  the  tie 
which  binds  them  to  the  little  ones  of  their  flocks. 
I  have  never  been  in  a  land  where  priests  and  chil 
dren  were  not  companions.  These  long-frocked 
guardians  sit  beside  their  playgrounds,  with  noses 
in  their  breviaries,  or  they  head  processions  of 
boys  and  girls  on  the  way  to  chapel,  or  they  follow, 
105 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

two  by  two,  behind  a  long  string  of  blue-checked 
aprons  and  severe  felt  hats,  the  uniform  of  the 
motherless;  or  they  teach  the  little  vagrants  by 
the  hour — often  it  is  the  only  schooling  that  these 
children  get. 

But  I  never  remember  one  of  them  carrying 
such  a  waif  about  in  his  arms,  nor  one  irradiated 
by  such  a  flash  of  heavenly  joy  when  some  child, 
in  a  mad  frolic,  saw  fit  to  scrape  her  muddy  shoes 
down  the  front  of  his  clean,  black  cassock. 

The  beatific  smile  itself  was  not  altogether  new 
to  me.  Anyone  else  can  see  it  who  wanders  into 
the  Gallery  of  the  Prado.  It  irradiates  the  face  of 
an  old  saint  by  Eibera — a  study  for  one  of  his 
large  canvases,  and  is  hung  above  the  line.  I  used 
to  stand  before  it  for  hours,  studying  the  technique. 
The  high  lights  on  the  face  are  cracked  in  places, 
and  the  shadows  are  blackened  by  time,  but  the  ex 
pression  is  that  of  one  who  looks  straight  up  into 
heaven.  And  there  is  another — a  Correggio,  in  the 
Hermitage,  a  St.  Simon  or  St.  Timothy,  or  some 
other  old  fellow — whose  eyes  run  tears  of  joy,  and 
whose  upturned  face  reflects  the  light  of  the  sun. 
Yet  there  was  something  in  the  face  of  the  priest 
before  me  that  neither  of  the  others  had — a  pecul 
iar  human  quality,  which  shone  out  of  his  eyes, 
as  he  stood  bareheaded  in  the  sunshine,  the  little 
girl  in  his  arms.  If  the  child  had  been  his  daugh 
ter — his  very  own  and  all  he  had,  and  if  he  had 
caught  her  safe  from  some  danger  that  threatened 
106 


A   PROCESSION    OF   UMBRELLAS 

her  life,  it  could  not  have  expressed  more  clearly 
the  joyousness  of  gratitude  or  the  bliss  inspired 
by  the  sense  of  possessing  something  so  priceless 
that  every  other  emotion  was  absorbed. 

It  was  all  over  in  a  moment.  He  did  not  con 
tinue  to  beam  irradiating  beatitudes,  as  the  old 
Ribera  and  the  older  Correggio  have  done  for  hun 
dreds  of  years.  He  simply  touched  his  hat  to  me, 
tucked  the  child's  hand  into  his  own,  and  led  her 
off  to  her  mother. 

I  kept  at  my  work.  For  me  the  incident,  de 
lightful  as  it  was,  was  closed.  All  I  remembered, 
as  I  squeezed  the  contents  of  another  tube  on  to  my 
palette,  was  the  smile  on  the  face  of  the  priest. 

The  weather  now  began  to  take  part  in  the  gen 
eral  agitation.  The  lazy  haze,  roused  by  the  joy 
ous  sun,  had  gathered  its  skirts  together  and  had 
slipped  over  the  hills.  The  sun  in  its  turn  had 
been  effaced  by  a  big  cloud  with  scalloped  edges 
which  had  overspread  the  distant  line  of  the  river, 
blotting  out  the  flashes  of  silver  laughter,  and  so 
frightening  the  little  waves  that  they  scurried  off 
to  the  banks,  some  even  trying  to  climb  up  the  stone 
coping  out  of  the  way  of  the  rising  wind.  A  cool 
gust  of  air,  out  on  a  lark,  now  swept  down  the 
path,  and,  with  lance  in  rest,  toppled  over  my  white 
umbrella.  Big  drops  of  rain  fell  about  me,  spitting 
the  dust  like  spent  balls.  Growls  of  thunder  were 
heard  overhead.  One  of  those  rollicking,  two- 
faced  thunder-squalls,  with  the  sun  on  one  side 
107 


THE   TJKDEK  DOG 

and  the  blackness  of  the  night  on  the  other,  was 
approaching. 

The  priest  had  seen  it,  for  he  had  the  child  pick 
aback  and  was  running  across  the  sward.  The 
woman  had  seen  it,  too,  for  she  was  already  col 
lecting  her  baskets,  preparing  to  follow,  and  I 
was  not  far  behind.  Before  she  had  reached  the 
edge  of  the  woods  I  had  overtaken  her,  my  traps 
under  my  arm,  my  white  umbrella  over  my  head. 

"The  Chalet  Cycle  is  the  nearest,"  she  volun 
teered,  grasping  the  situation,  and  pointing  to  a 
path  opening  to  the  right  as  she  spoke. 

"Is  that  where  he  has  taken  the  child?"  I  asked, 
hurriedly. 

"No,  Monsieur — Susette  has  gone  home.  It  is 
only  a  little  way." 

I  plunged  on  through  the  wet  grass,  my  eyes  on 
the  opening  through  the  trees,  the  rain  pouring 
from  my  umbrella.  Before  I  had  reached  the  end 
of  the  path  the  rain  ceased  and  the  sun  broke 
through,  flooding  the  wet  leaves  with  dazzling 
light. 

These  two,  the  clouds  and  the  sun,  were  evi 
dently  bent  on  mischief,  frightening  little  waves 
and  painters  and  bright-eyed .  children  and  good 
priests  who  loved  them! 


108 


A   PROCESSION    OF   UMBRELLAS 


II 


Do  you  happen  to  know  the  Chalet  Cycle  ? 

If  you  are  a  staid  old  painter  who  takes  life  as 
he  finds  it,  and  who  loves  to  watch  the  procession 
from  the  sidewalk  without  any  desire  to  carry  one 
of  the  banners  or  to  blow  one  of  the  horns — one 
of  your  three-meals-a-day,  no  heel-taps,  and  go-to- 
bed-at-ten-o'clock  kind  of  a  man,  then  make  a  note 
of  the  Cycle.  The  melons  are  excellent ;  the  ome 
lets  are  wonders,  and  the  salads  something  to  be 
remembered.  But,  if  you  are  two-and-twenty, 
with  the  world  in  a  sling  and  both  ends  of  the  sling 
in  your  hand,  and  if  this  is  your  first  real  outing 
since  your  college  days,  it  would  be  just  as  well  for 
you  to  pass  it  by  and  take  your  coffee  and  rolls  at 
the  little  restaurant  over  the  bridge,  or  the  one 
farther  down  the  street. 

Believe  me,  a  most  seductive  place  is  this  Chalet 
Cycle,  with  its  tables  set  out  under  the  trees ! 

A  place,  at  night,  all  hanging  lanterns  and 
shaded  candles  on  tete-a-tete  tables,  and  close-drawn 
curtains  about  the  kiosks.  A  place,  by  day,  where 
you  lunch  under  giant  red  and  white  umbrellas, 
with  seats  for  two,  and  these  half -hidden  by  Japan 
ese  screens,  so  high  that  even  the  waiters  cannot 
look  over.  A  place  with  a  great  music-stand  smoth 
ered  in  palms  and  shady  walks  and  cosey  seats, 
out  of  sight  of  anybody,  and  with  deaf,  dumb,  and 
109 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

blind  waiters.  A  place  with  a  big  open  gateway 
where  everybody  can  enter  and — ah!  there  is 
where  the  danger  lies — a  little  by-path  all  hedged 
about  with  lilac  bushes,  where  anybody  can  escape 
to  the  woods  by  the  river — an  ever-present  refuge 
in  time  of  trouble  and  in  constant  use — more's  the 
pity — for  it  is  the  unexpected  that  always  happens 
at  the  Chalet  Cycle. 

The  prettiest  girls  in  Paris,  in  bewitching  bicy 
cle  costumes,  linger  about  the  music-stand,  losing 
themselves  in  the  arbors  and  shrubberies.  The 
kiosks  are  almost  all  occupied:  charming  little 
Chinese  pagodas  these — eight-sided,  with  lattice 
screens  on  all  sides — screens  so  tightly  woven  that 
no  curious  idler  can  see  in,  and  yet  so  loosely  put 
together  that  each  hidden  inmate  can  see  out. 
Even  the  trees  overhead  have  a  hand  in  the  villany, 
spreading  their  leaves  thickly,  so  that  the  sun  it 
self  has  a  hard  time  to  find  out  what  is  going  on 
beneath  their  branches.  All  this  you  become  aware 
of  as  you  enter  the  big,  wide  gate. 

Of  course,  being  quite  alone,  with  only  my  bat 
tered  old  umbrella  for  company,  I  did  not  want 
a  whole  kiosk  to  myself,  or  even  half  of  a  giant 
umbrella.  Any  quiet  corner  would  do  for  me,  I 
told  the  Maitre  d'Hotel,  who  relieved  me  of  my 
sketch-trap — anywhere  out  of  the  rain  when  it 
should  again  break  loose,  which  it  was  evidently 
about  to  do,  judging  from  the  appearance  of  the 
clouds — anywhere,  in  fact,  where  I  could  eat  a  filet 


A   PROCESSION    OF   UMBRELLAS 

smothered  in  mushrooms,  and  drink  a  pint  of  vin 
ordinaire  in  peace. 

"No,  I  expected  no  one."  This  in  answer  to  a 
peculiar  lifting  of  the  eyebrows  and  slight  wave  of 
his  hand  as  he  drew  out  a  chair  in  an  unoccupied 
kiosk  commanding  a  view  of  the  grounds.  Then, 
in  rather  a  positive  tone,  I  added : 

"Send  me  a  waiter  to  take  my  order — orders  for 
one,  remember."  I  wanted  to  put  a  stop  to  his  in 
sinuations  at  once.  Nothing  is  so  annoying  when 
one's  hair  is  growing  gray  as  being  misunderstood 
— especially  by  a  waiter. 

Affairs  overhead  now  took  a  serious  turn.  The 
clouds  evidently  disapproving  of  the  hilarious  go 
ings-on  of  the  sun — poking  its  head  out  just  as  the 
cloud  was  raining  its  prettiest — had,  in  retaliation, 
stopped  up  all  the  holes  the  sun  could  peer  through, 
and  had  started  in  to  rain  harder  than  ever.  The 
waiters  caught  the  angry  frown  on  the  cloud's  face, 
and  took  it  at  its  spoken  word — it  had  begun  to 
thunder  again — and  began  piling  up  the  chairs  to 
protect  their  seats,  covering  up  the  serving-tables, 
and  getting  every  perishable  article  under  shelter. 
The  huge  mushroom-umbrellas  were  collapsed  and 
rushed  into  the  kiosks — some  of  them  into  the  one 
where  I  sat,  it  being  the  largest ;  small  tables  were 
turned  upside  down,  and  tilted  against  the  tree- 
trunks,  and  the  storm-curtains  of  all  the  little 
kiosks  let  down  and  buttoned  tight  to  the  frames. 
Waiters  ran  hither  and  thither,  with  napkins  and 
111 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

.aprons  over  their  heads,  carrying  fresh  courses  for 
the  several  tables  or  escaping  with  their  empty 
dishes. 

In  the  midst  of  this  melee  a  cab  dashed  up  to 
the  next  kiosk  to  mine,  the  wheels  cutting  into  the 
soft  gravel ;  the  curtains  were  quickly  drawn  wide 
by  a  half-drowned  waiter,  and  a  young  man  with 
jet-black  hair  and  an  Oriental  type  of  face  slipped 
in  between  them. 

Another  carriage  now  dashed  up,  following  the 
grooves  of  the  first  wheels — not  a  cab  this  time, 
but  a  perfectly  appointed  coupe,  with  two  men  in 
livery  on  the  box,  and  the  front  windows  banked 
with  white  chrysanthemums.  I  could  not  see  her 
face  from  where  I  sat — she  was  too  quick  for  that 
— but  I  saw  the  point  of  a  tiny  shoe  as  it  rested 
for  an  instant  on  the  carriage-step  and  a  whirl  of 
lace  about  a  silk  stocking.  I  caught  also  the  move 
ment  of  four  hands — two  outstretched  from  the 
curtains  of  the  kiosk  and  two  from  the  door  of  the 
•coupe. 

Of  course,  if  I  had  been  a  very  inquisitive  and 
Tery  censorious  old  painter,  with  a  tendency  to 
poke  my  nose  into  and  criticise  other  people's  busi 
ness,  I  would  at  once  have  put  two  and  two  together 
and  asked  myself  innumerable  questions.  Why, 
for  instance,  the  charming  couple  did  not  arrive  at 
the  same  moment,  and  in  the  same  cab?  or  why 
they  came  all  the  way  out  to  Suresne  in  the  rain, 
when  there  were  so  many  cosey  little  tables  at  Lau- 
112 


I  saw  the  point  of  a  tiny  shoe. 


A   PROCESSION    OF   UMBRELLAS 

rent's  or  at  the  Voisin,  on  the  Rue  Cambon,  or  in 
the  Cafe  Anglais  on  the  Boulevard.  Whether,  too, 
either  one  were  married,  and  if  so  which  one,  and 
if  so  again,  what  the  other  fellow  and  the  other 
woman  would  do  if  he  or  she  found  it  all  out ;  and 
whether,  after  all,  it  was  worth  the  candle  when  it 
did  all  come  out,  which  it  was  bound  to  do  some 
day  sooner  or  later.  Or  I  could  have  indulged  in 
the  customary  homilies,  and  decried  the  tendencies 
of  the  times,  and  said  to  myself  how  the  world  was 
going  to  the  dogs  because  of  such  goings-on ;  quite 
forgetting  the  days  when  I,  too,  had  the  world  in 
a  sling,  and  was  whirling  it  around  my  head  with 
all  the  impetuosity  and  abandon  of  youth. 

But  I  did  none  of  these  things — that  is,  nothing 
Paul  Pryish  or  presuming.  I  merely  beckoned  to 
the  Maitre  d'Hotel,  as  he  stood  poised  on  the  edge 
of  the  couple's  kiosk,  with  the  order  for  their 
breakfast  in  his  hands,  and,  when  he  had  reached 
my  half-way  station  on  his  way  across  the  garden 
to  the  kitchen,  stopped  him  with  a  question.  Not 
with  my  lips — that  is  quite  unnecessary  with  an 
old-time  Maitre  d'Hotel — but  with  my  two  eye 
brows,  one  thumb,  and  a  part  of  one  shoulder. 

"The  nephew  of  the  Sultan,  Monsieur — "  he  an 
swered,  instantly. 

"And  the  lady?" 

"Ah,  that  is  Mademoiselle  Ernestine  Beraud  of 
the  Variete.     She  comes  quite  often.     For  Mon 
sieur,  it  is  his  first  time  this  season." 
113 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

He  evidently  took  me  for  an  old  liabitue.  There 
are  some  compensations,  after  all,  in  the  life  of  a 
staid  old  painter. 

With  these  solid  facts  in  my  possession  I 
breathed  a  little  easier.  Mademoiselle  Ernestine 
Beraud,  from  the  little  I  had  seen  of  her,  was 
quite  capable  of  managing  her  own  affairs  without 
my  own  or  anybody  else's  advice,  even  if  I  had 
been  disposed  to  give  it.  She  no  doubt  loved  the 
lambent-eyed  gentleman  to  distraction;  the  kiosk 
was  their  only  refuge,  and  the  whole  affair  was 
being  so  discreetly  managed  that  neither  the  lam 
bent-eyed  gentleman  nor  his  houri  would  be 
obliged  to  escape  by  means  of  the  lilac-bordered 
path  in  the  rear  on  this  or  any  other  morning. 

And  if  they  should,  what  did  it  matter  to  me  ? 
The  little  row  in  the  cloud  overhead  would  soon 
end  in  further  torrents  of  tears,  as  all  such  rows 
do;  the  sun  would  have  its  way  after  all  and  dry 
every  one  of  them  up;  the  hungry  part  of  me 
would  have  its  filet  and  pint  of  St.  Julien,  and  the 
painter  part  of  me  would  go  back  to  the  little  path 
by  the  river  and  finish  its  sketch. 

Again  I  tried  to  signal  the  Maitre  d'Hotel  as 
he  dashed  past  on  his  way  to  the  kiosk.  This  time 
he  was  under  one  of  the  huge  umbrellas  which 
an  "omnibus"  was  holding  over  him,  Rajah-fash 
ion.  He  had  a  plump  melon,  half-smothered  in 
ice,  in  his  hands,  to  protect  it  from  the  downpour, 
the  rain  making  gargoyles  of  the  points  of  the 
114 


A   PEOCESSION    OF   UMBKELLAS 

ribs  of  the  umbrella.  Evidently  the  breakfast 
was  too  important  and  the  expected  fee  too  large 
to  intrust  it  to  an  underling.  He  must  serve  it 
himself. 

Up  to  this  moment  no  portion  of  my  order  had 
materialized.  No  cover  for  one,  nor  filet,  nor  vin 
ordinaire,  nor  waiter  had  appeared.  The  painter 
was  growing  impatient.  The  man  inside  was  be 
coming  hungry. 

I  waited  until  he  emerged  with  an  empty  dish, 
watched  him  grasp  the  giant  umbrella,  teeter  on 
the  edge  of  the  kiosk  for  a  moment,  and  plunge 
through  the  gravel,  now  rivers  of  water,  toward 
my  kiosk,  the  "omnibus"  following  as  best  he 
could. 

"A  thousand  pardons,  Monsieur — "  he  cried 
from  beneath  his  shelter,  as  he  read  my  face.  "It 
will  not  be  long  now.  It  is  coming — here,  you  can 
see  for  yourself — "  and  he  pointed  across  the 
garden,  and  tramped  on,  the  water  spattering  his 
ankles. 

I  looked  and  saw  a  solemn  procession  of  huge 
umbrellas,  the  ones  used  over  the  tete-a-tete  tables 
beneath  the  trees,  slowly  wending  its  way  toward 
where  I  sat,  with  all  the  measured  movement  and 
dignity  of  a  file  of  Eastern  potentates  out  for  an 
airing. 

Under  each  umbrella  were  two  waiters,  one 
carrying  the  umbrella  and  the  other  a  portion  of 
my  breakfast.  The  potentate  under  the  first  urn- 
115 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

brella,  who  carried  the  wine,  proved  to  be  a 
waiter-in-chief ;  the  others  bearing  the  filet,  plates, 
dishes,  and  glasses  were  ordinary  "omnibuses," 
pressed  into  service  as  palanquin-bearers  by  reason 
of  the  storm. 

The  waiter-in-chief,  with  the  bottle,  dodged 
from  under  his  bungalow,  leaving  it  outside  and 
still  open,  like  a  stranded  circus-tent,  stepped  into 
my  kiosk,  mopped  the  rain  from  his  coat-sleeves 
and  hands  with  a  napkin,  and,  bowing  solemnly, 
pointed  to  the  label  on  the  bottle.  This  meeting 
my  approval,  he  relieved  the  rear-guard  of  the 
dishes,  arranged  the  table,  drew  the  cork  of  the 
St.  Julien,  filled  my  glass,  dismissed  the  assistants 
and  took  his  place  behind  my  chair. 

The  closeness  of  the  quarters,  the  protection  it 
afforded  from  the  raging  elements,  the  perils  my 
companion  had  gone  through  to  serve  me,  made 
possible  a  common  level  on  which  we  could  stand. 
We  discussed  the  storm,  the  prospect  of  its  clear 
ing,  the  number  of  unfortunates  in  the  adjacent 
Bois  who  were  soaked  to  the  skin,  especially  the 
poor  little  bicycle-girls  in  their  cotton  bloomers, 
now  collapsed  and  bedraggled.  "We  talked  of  the 
great  six-day  cross-country  bicycle-race,  and  how 
the  winner,  tired  out,  had  wabbled  over  the  Bridge 
that  same  morning,  with  the  whole  pack  behind 
him,  having  won  by  less  than  five  minutes.  We 
talked  of  the  people  who  came  and  went,  and  who 
they  were,  and  how  often  they  dined,  and  what 
Ilfi 


they  spent,  and  ate  and  drank,  and  of  the  rich 
American  who  had  given  the  waiter  a  gold  Louis 
for  a  silver  franc,  and  who  was  too  proud  to  take 
it  back  when  his  attention  was  called  to  the  mis 
take  (which  my  companion  could  not  but  admit 
was  quite  foolish  of  him)  ;  and,  finally,  of  the 
dark-skinned  Oriental  with  the  lambent  eyes,  and 
the  adorable  Ernestine  with  the  pointed  shoes  and 
open-work  silk  stockings  and  fluffy  skirts,  who  oc 
cupied  the  kiosk  within  ten  feet  of  where  I  sat 
and  he  stood. 

During  the  conversation  I  was  busy  with  my 
knife  and  fork,  my  eyes  at  intervals  taking  in 
the  scene  before  me;  the  comings  and  goings  of 
the  huge  umbrellas — one,  two,  or  three,  as  the 
serving  of  the  dishes  demanded,  the  rain  stream 
ing  from  their  sides ;  now  the  fish,  now  the  salad,, 
now  a  second  bottle  of  wine  in  a  cooler,  and  now 
the  last  course  of  all  on  an  empty  plate,  which  my 
companion  said  was  the  bill,  and  which  he  char 
acterized  as  the  most  important  part  of  the  pro 
cession,  except  the  pour  boire.  Each  time  the  pro 
cession  came  to  a  full  stop  outside  the  kiosk  until 
the  sentinel  waiter  relieved  them  of  their  burdens. 
My  sympathies  constantly  went  out  to  this  man. 
There  was  no  room  for  him  inside,  and  certainly 
no  wish  for  his  company,  and  so  he  must,  perforce, 
balance  himself  under  his  umbrella,  first  on  one 
leg  and  then  on  the  other,  in  his  effort  to  escape 
the  spatter  which  now  reached  his  knees,  quite  as 
117 


THE   TODER  DOG 

would  a  wet  chicken  seeking  shelter  under  a  cart- 
body. 

I  say  my  companion  and  I  "talked"  of  these 
several  sights  and  incidents  as  I  ate  my  luncheon. 
And  yet,  really,  up  to  this  time  I  had  not  once 
looked  into  his  face,  quite  a  necessary  thing  in 
conducting  a  conversation  of  any  duration.  But 
then  one  rarely  does  in  talking  to  a  waiter  when 
he  is  serving  you.  My  remarks  had  generally 
been  addressed  to  the  dish  in  front  of  me,  or  to 
the  door  opposite,  through  which  I  looked,  and  his 
rejoinders  to  the  back  of  my  shirt-collar.  If  he 
had  sat  opposite,  or  had  moved  into  the  perspec 
tive,  I  might  once  in  a  while  have  caught  a 
glimpse,  over  my  glass  or  spoon,  of  his  smileless, 
mask-like  face,  a  thing  impossible,  of  course,  with 
him  constantly  behind  my  chair. 

When,  however,  in  the  course  of  his  monotone, 
he  mentioned  the  name  of  Mademoiselle  Ernestine 
Beraud  and  that,  of  the  distinguished  kinsman  of 
His  Serene  Highness,  the  Grand  Pan-Jam  of  the 
Orient,  I  turned  my  head  in  his  direction. 

"You  know  the  Mademoiselle,  then  ?" 

My  waiter  shrugged  his  shoulders,  his  face  still 
impenetrable. 

"Monsieur,  I  know  everybody  in  Paris.  Why 
not  ?  Twenty-three  years  a  waiter.  Twenty  years 
at  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix  in  Paris,  and  three  years 
here.  Do  you  wonder  ?" 

There  are  in  my  experience  but  four  kinds  of 
118 


A   PROCESSION    OF   UMBRELLAS 

waiters  the  world  over.  First,  the  thin,  nervous 
waiter,  with  a  set  smile,  who  is  always  brushing 
away  imaginary  crumbs,  adjusting  the  glasses — 
an  inch  this  way,  an  inch  that  way,  and  then  back 
again  to  their  first  position,  talking  all  the  time, 
whether  spoken  to  or  not,  and  losing  interest  the 
moment  you  pay  him  his  fee.  Then  the  stolid, 
half-asleep  waiter,  fat  and  perpetually  moist,  who 
considers  his  duties  over  when  he  has  placed  your 
order  on  the  cloth  and  moved  the  wine  within 
reach  of  your  hand.  Next  the  apprentice  waiter, 
promoted  from  assistant  cook  or  scullion-boy,  who 
carries  on  a  conversation  in  signs  behind  your  back 
with  the  waiter  opposite  him,  smothering  his 
laughter  at  intervals  in  the  same  napkin  with  which 
he  wipes  your  plate,  and  who,  when  he  changes  a 
course,  slants  the  dishes  up  his  sleeve,  keeping  the 
top  one  in  place  with  his  chin,  replacing  the  plates 
again  with  a  wavy  motion,  as  if  they  were  so  many 
quoits,  each  one  circling  into  its  place — a  trick  of 
which  he  is  immensely  proud. 

And  last — and  this  is  by  no  means  a  large  class — 
the  grave,  dignified,  self-possessed,  well-mannered 
waiter;  smooth-shaven,  spotlessly  clean,  noiseless, 
smug  and  attentive.  He  generally  walks  with  a 
slight  limp,  an  infirmity  due  to  his  sedentary 
habits  and  his  long  acquaintance  with  his  several 
employers'  decanters.  He  is  never  under  fifty,  is 
round  of  form,  short  in  the  legs,  broad  of  shoulder, 
and  wears  his  gray  hair  cut  close.  He  has  had  a 
119 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

long  and  varied  experience;  he  has  been  bl/ttons, 
valet,  second  man,  first  man,  lord  high  butler,  and 
then  down  the  scale  again  to  plain  waiter.  This 
has  not  been  his  fault  but  his  misfortune — the 
settling  of  an  estate,  it  may  be,  or  the  death  of  a 
master.  He  has,  with  unerring  judgment,  summed 
you  up  in  his  mind  before  you  have  taken  your 
seat,  and  has  gauged  your  intelligence  and 'breed 
ing  with  the  first  dish  you  ordered.  Intimate 
knowledge  of  the  world  and  of  men  and  of  women 
— especially  the  last — has  developed  in  him  a  dis 
trust  of  all  things  human.  He  alone  has  seen  the 
pressure  of  the  jewelled  hands  as  they  lay  on  the 
cloth  or  under  it,  the  lawful  partner  opposite.  He 
alone  has  caught  the  last  whispered  word  as  the 
opera-cloak  fell  about  her  shoulders,  and  knows 
just  where  they  dined  the  next  day,  and  who  paid 
for  it  and  why.  Being  looked  upon  as  part  of  the 
appointments  of  the  place,  like  the  chandeliers  or 
the  mirrors  or  the  electric  bell  that  answers  when 
spoken  to  but  never  talks  back,  he  has,  uncon 
sciously  to  those  he  serves,  become  the  custodian 
of  their  closest  secrets.  These  he  keeps  to  himself. 
Were  he  to  open  his  mouth  he  could  not  only  break 
up  a  score  or  more  of  highly  respectable  families, 
but  might  possibly  upset  a  ministry. 

My  waiter  belonged  to  this  last  group. 

I  saw  it  in  every  deferential  gesture  of  his  body, 
and  every  modulated  tone  of  his  voice.  Whether 
his  moral  nature  had  become  warped  and  cracked 
120 


A   PROCESSION    OF   UMBRELLAS 

and  twisted  out  of  all  shape  by  constant  daily  and 
nightly  contact — especially  the  last — with  the  sort 
of  life  he  had  led,  or  whether  some  of  the  old-time 
refinement  of  his  better  days  still  clung  to  him, 
was  a  question  I  could  not  decide  from  the  ex 
hibits  before  me — certainly  not  from  the  calm 
eyes  which  never  wavered,  nor  the  set  mouth 
which  never  for  a  moment  relaxed,  the  only  im 
portant  features  in  the  face  so  far  as  character- 
reading  is  concerned. 

I  determined  to  draw  him  out;  not  that  he  in 
terested  me  in  any  way,  but  simply  because  such 
studies  are  instructive.  Then,  again,  his  account 
of  his  experiences  might  be  still  more  instructive. 
When  should  I  have  a  better  opportunity?  Here 
was  a  man  steeped  in  the  life  of  Paris  up  to  his 
very  eyelids,  one  thoroughly  conversant  with  the 
peccadilloes  of  innumerable  viveurs — peccadilloes 
interesting  even  to  staid  old  painters,  simply  as 
object-lessons,  especially  those  committed  by  the 
other  gay  Lothario:  the  fellow,  for  instance,  who 
did  not  know  she  was  dangerous  until  his  letter  of 
credit  collapsed ;  or  the  peccadilloes  of  the  beau 
tiful  moth  who  believed  the  candle  lighting  her 
path  to  be  an  incandescent  bulb  of  joy,  until  her 
scorched  wings  hung  about  her  bare  shoulders: 
That  kind  of  peccadillo. 

So  I  pushed  back  my  chair,  opened  my  cigar- 
case,  and  proceeded  to  adjust  the  end  of  my  mental 
probe.  There  was  really  nothing  better  to  do,, 
121 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

even  if  I  had  no  such  surgical  operation  in  view. 
It  was  still  raining,  and  neither  I  nor  the  waiter 
could  leave  our  Chinese-junk  of  an  island  until 
the  downpour  ceased  or  we  were  rescued  by  a  life 
boat  or  an  umbrella. 

"And  this  nephew  of  the  Sultan,"  I  began  again 
between  puffs,  addressing  my  remark  to  the  match 
in  my  companion's  hand,  which  was  now  burning 
itself  out  at  the  extreme  end  of  my  cigar.  "Is 
he  a  new  admirer  ?" 

"Quite  new — only  ten  days  or  so,  I  think." 

"And  the  one  before — the  old  one — what  does 
he  think?"  I  asked  this  question  with  one  of 
those  cold,  hollow,  heartless  laughs,  such  as 
croupiers  are  supposed  to  indulge  in  when  they 
toss  a  five-franc  piece  back  to  a  poor  devil  who 
has  just  lost  his  last  hundred  Napoleons  at  bacca 
rat — I  have  never  seen  this  done  and  have  never 
heard  the  laugh,  but  that  is  the  way  the  story 
books  put  it — particularly  the  blood-curdling  part 
of  the  laugh. 

"You  mean  Pierre  Channet,  the  painter,  Mon 
sieur  ?" 

I  had,  of  course,  never  heard  of  Pierre  Channet, 
the  painter,  in  my  life,  but  I  nodded  as  knowingly 
as  if  I  had  been  on  the  most  intimate  relations 
with  him  for  years.  Then,  again,  this  was  my 
only  way  of  getting  down  to  his  personal  level,  the 
only  way  I  could  draw  him  out  and  get  at  his  real 
character.  By  taking  his  side  of  the  question,  he 
122 


A   PKOCESSION    OF   UMBKELLAS 

would  unbosom  himself  the  more  freely,  and,  per 
haps,  incidentally,  some  of  the  peccadilloes — some 
of  the  most  wicked. 

"He  will  not  think,  Monsieur.  They  pulled 
him  out  of  the  river  last  month." 

"Drowned?" 

His  answer  gave  me  a  little  start,  but  I  did  not 
betray  myself. 

"So  they  said.  The  water  trickled  along  his 
nose  for  two  days  as  he  lay  on  the  slab,  before 
they  found  out  who  he  was." 

"In  the  morgue?"  I  inquired  in  a  tone  of  sur 
prise.  I  spoke  as  if  this  part  of  the  story  had 
not  reached  me. 

"In  the  morgue,  Monsieur." 

The  repeated  words  came  as  cold  and  merciless 
as  the  drops  of  water  that  fell  on  poor  Channet 
as  he  lay  under  the  gas-jets. 

"Drowned  himself  for  love  of  Mademoiselle 
Beraud,  you  say?" 

"Quite  true,  Monsieur.  He  is  not  the  only  one. 
I  know  four." 

"And  she  began  to  love  another  in  a  week?" 
My  indignation  nearly  got  the  better  of  me  this 
time,  but  I  do  not  think  he  noticed  it. 

"Why  not,  Monsieur  ?    One  must  live." 

As  he  spoke  he  moved  an  ash-tray  deliber 
ately  within  reach  of  my  hand,  and  poured  the 
balance  of  the  St.  Julien  into  my  gla'ss  without  a 
quiver. 

123 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

I  smoked  on  in  silence.  Every  spark  of  human 
feeling  had  evidently  been  stifled  in  him.  The 
Juggernaut  of  Paris,  in  rolling  over  him,  had 
broken  every  generous  impulse,  flattening  him 
into  a  pulp  of  brutal  selfishness.  That  is  why  his 
face  was  so  smooth  and  cold,  his  eyes  so  dull  and 
his  voice  so  monotonous.  I  understood  it  all  now. 
I  changed  the  subject.  I  did  not  know  where  it 
would  lead  if  I  kept  on.  Drowned  lovers  were  not 
Tvhat  I  was  looking  for. 

"You  say  you  have  only  been  two  years  in 
Suresne?"  I  resumed,  carelessly,  flicking  the  ashes 
from  my  cigar. 

"But  two  years,  Monsieur." 

"Why  did  you  leave  Paris  ?" 

"Ah,  when  one  is  -over  fifty  it  is  quite  done. 
Is  it  not  so,  Monsieur  ?" — this  made  with  a  little 
deferential  wave  of  his  hand.  I  noted  the  tribute 
to  the  staid  painter,  and  nodded  approvingly.  He 
was  evidently  climbing  up  to  my  level.  Perhaps 
this  plank,  slender  as  it  was,  might  take  him  out 
of  the  slough  and  land  him  on  higher  and  better 
ground. 

"Yes,  you  are  right.  And  so  you  came  to 
Suresne  to  be  quiet." 

"Not  altogether,  Monsieur.  I  came  to  be  near — • 
Well!  we  are  never  too  old  for  that —  Is  it  not 
so?"  He  said  it  quite  simply,  quite  as  a  matter 
of  course,  the  tones  of  his  voice  as  monotonous  as 
any  he  had  yet  used — just  as  he  had  spoken  of  poor 
124 


A  PKOCESSION    OF   UMBRELLAS 

Channet  in  the  morgue  with  the  water  trickling 
over  his  dead  face. 

"Oh,  then,  even  at  fifty  you  have  a  sweetheart !" 
I  blurted  out  with  a  sudden  twist  of  my  probe. 
I  felt  now  that  I  might  as  well  follow  the  iniquity 
to  the  end. 

"It  is  true,  Monsieur." 

"Is  she  pretty?"  As  long  as  I  was  dissecting 
I  might  at  least  discover  the  root  of  the  disease. 
This  remark,  however,  was  not  addressed  to  his 
face,  but  to  a  crumb  of  ashes  on  the  cloth,  which  I 
was  trying  to  remove  with  the  point  of  a  knife. 
He  might  not  have  answered,  or  liked  it,  had  I 
fired  the  question  at  him  point-blank.  " 

"Very  pretty — "  still  the  same  monotone. 

"And  you  love  her!"  It  was  up  to  the  hilt 
now. 

"She  is  the  only  thing  I  have  left  to  love,  Mon 
sieur,"  he  answered,  calmly. 

Then,  bending  over  me,  he  added: 

"Monsieur,  I  do  not  think  I  am  mistaken. 
Were  you  not  painting  along  the  river  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"Tee." 

"And  a  little  child  stood  beside  you  while  you 
worked?"  Something  in  his  voice  as  he  spoke 
made  me  raise  my  head.  To  my  intense  amaze 
ment  the  listless  eyes  were  alight  with  a  tender 
ness  that  seemed  to  permeate  his  whole  being,  and 
a  smile  of  infinite  sweetness  was  playing  about  his 
125 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

mouth — the  smile  of  the  old  saint — the  Ribera  of 
the  Prado! 

"Yes,  of  course;  the  one  playing  with  the 
priest,"  I  answered,  quickly.  "But "' 

"No;  that  was  me,  Monsieur.  I  have  often 
been  taken  for  a  priest,  especially  when  I  am  off 
duty.  It  is  the  smooth  face  that  misled  you — " 
and  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  cheeks  and  chin. 

"You  the  priest !"  This  came  as  a  distinct  sur 
prise.  "Ah,  yes,  I  do  see  the  resemblance  now. 
And  so  your  sweetheart  is  the  woman  in  the  white 
cap."  At  last  I  had  reached  his  tender  spot. 

"No,  you  are  wrong  again,  Monsieur.  The 
woman  in  the  white  cap  is  my  sister.  My  sweet 
heart  is  the  little  girl — my  granddaughter,  Su- 
sette." 


I  raised  my  own  white  umbrella  over  my  head, 
picked  up  my  sketch-trap,  and  took  the  path  back 
to  the  river.  The  rain  had  ceased,  the  sun 
was  shining — brilliant,  radiant  sunshine;  all  the 
leaves  studded  with  diamonds;  all  the  grasses 
strung  with  opals,  every  stone  beneath  my  feet  a 
gem. 

I  didn't  know  when  I  left  what  became  of 
Mademoiselle  Ernestine  Beraud,  with  her  last 
lover  under  the  sod,  and  the  new  one  shut  up  in 
the  kiosk,  and  I  didn't  care.  I  saw  only  a  little 
girl — a  little  girl  in  a  brown-madder  dress  and 
126 


A   PROCESSION    OF   UMBRELLAS 

yellow-ochre  hat ;  with  big,  blue  eyes,  a  tiny  pug- 
nose,  a  wee,  kissable  mouth,  and  two  long  pig 
tails  down  her  back.  Looking  down  into  her 
bonny  face  from  its  place,  high  up  on  the  walls  of 
the  Prado,  was  an  old  cracked  saint,  his  human 
eyes  aglow  with  a  light  that  came  straight  from 
heaven. 


» DOC  "  SHIPMAN'S  FEE 


«DOC"  SHIPMAN'S   FEE 

It  was  in  the  Doctor's  own  office  that  he  told  me 
this  story.  He  has  told  me  a  dozen  more,  all 
pulled  from  the  rag-bag  of  his  experience,  like 
strands  of  worsted  from  an  old-fashioned  reticule. 
Some  were  bright-colored,  some  were  gray  and 
dull — some  black;  most  of  them,  in  fact,  sombre 
in  tone,  for  the  Doctor  has  spent  much  of  his  life 
climl^JTig  up  the  rickety  stairs  of  gloomy  tene 
ments.  jSTow  and  then  there  comes  out  a  thread 
of  gold  which  he  weaves  into  the  mesh  of  his  talk 
— some  gleam  of  pathos  or  heroism  or  unselfish 
ness,  lightening  the  whole  fabric.  This  kind  of 
story  he  loves  best  to  tell. 

The  Doctor  is  not  one  of  your  new-fashioned 
doctors  quartered  in  a  brownstone  house  off  the 
Avenue,  with  a  butler  opening  the  door;  a  pair  of 
bob-tailed  grays;  a  coupe  with  a  note-book  tucked 
away  in  its  pocket  bearing  the  names  of  various 
millionnaires ;  an  office  panelled  in  oak;  a  waiting- 
room  lined  with  patients  reading  last  month's 
magazines  until  he  should  send  for  them.  He  has 
no  such  abode  nor  belongings.  He  lives  all  alone 
by  himself  in  an  old-fashioned  house  on  Bedford 
Place — oh,  such  a  queer,  hunched-up  old  house 
131 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

and  such  a  quaint  old  neighborhood  poked  away 
behind  Jefferson  Market — and  he  opens  the  door 
himself  and  sees  everybody  who  comes — there  are 
not  a  great  many  of  them  nowadays,  more's  the 
pity. 

There  are  only  a  few  such  houses  left  up  the 
queer  old-fashioned  street  where  he  lives.  The 
others  were  pulled  down  long  ago,  or  pushed  out 
to  the  line  of  the  sidewalk  and  three  or  four  stories 
piled  on  top  of  them.  Some  of  these  modern  ones 
have  big,  carved  marble  porticos,  made  of  painted 
zinc  and  fastened  to  the  new  brickwork.  Inside 
these  portals  are  a  row  of  bronze  bells  and  a  line 
of  speaking  tubes  with  cards  below  bearing  the 
names  of  those  who  dwell  above. 

The  Doctor's  house  is  not  like  one  of  these.  It 
would  have  been  had  it  not  belonged  to  his  old 
mother,  who  died  long  ago  and  who  begged  him 
never  to  sell  it  while  he  lived.  He  was  thirty 
years  younger  then,  but  he  is  still  there  and  so  is 
the  old  house.  It  looks  a  little  ashamed  of  its 
shabbiness  when  you  come  upon  it  suddenly  hid 
ing  behind  its  pushing  neighbors.  First  comes 
an  iron  fence  with  a  gate  never  shut,  and  then  a 
flagged  path  dividing  a  grass-plot,  and  then  an  old- 
fashioned  wooden  stoop  with  two  steps,  guarded 
by  a  wooden  railing  (many  a  day  since  these  were 
painted)  ;  and  over  these  railings  and  up  the  sup 
ports  which  carry  the  roof  of  the  portico  straggles 
a  honeysuckle  that  does  its  best  to  hide  the  shabbi- 
132 


"DOC"    SHIPMAN'S   FEE 

ness  of  the  shingles  and  the  old  waterspout  and 
sagging  gutter,  and  fails  miserably  when  it  gets  to 
the  farther  cornice,  which  has  rotted  away,  show 
ing  under  its  dismal  paint  the  black  and  brown 
rust  of  decaying  wood. 

Then  way  in  under  the  portico  comes  the  door 
with  the  name-plate,  and  next  to  it,  level  with  the 
floor  of  the  piazza  or  portico — either  you  please, 
for  it  is  a  combination  of  both — are  two  long 
French  windows,  always  open  in  summer  evenings 
and  a -light  on  winter  nights  with  the  reflection  of 
the  Doctor's  soft-coal  fire,  telling  of  the  warmth 
and  cheer  within. 

For  it  is  a  cheery  place.  It  doesn't  look  like  a 
doctor's  office.  There  are  dingy  haircloth  sofas, 
it  is  true,  and  a  row  of  shelves  with  bottles,  and 
funny-looking  boxes  on  the  mantel — one  an  elec 
tric  battery — and  rows  and  rows  of  books  on  the 
walls.  But  there  are  no  dreadful  instruments 
about.  If  there  are,  you  don't  see  them. 

The  big  chair  he  sits  in  would  swallow  up  a 
smaller  man.  It  is  covered  with  Turkey  red  and 
has  a  roll  cushion  for  his  head.  There  are  two  of 
these  chairs — one  for  you,  or  me;  this  last  ha? 
big  arms  that  come  out  and  catch  you  under  the 
elbows,  a  mighty  help  to  a  man  when  he  has  just 
learned  that  his  liver  or  lungs  or  heart  or  some 
other  part  of  him  has  gone  wrong  and  needs  over 
hauling. 

Then  there  is  a  canary  that  sings  all  the  time, 
133 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

and  a  small  dog — oh,  such  a  low-down,  ill-bred, 
tousled  dog;  kind  of  a  dog  that  might  have  been 
raised  around  a  lumber-yard — was,  probably — 
one  ear  gone,  half  of  his  tail  missing;  and  there 
are  some  pots  of  flowers,  and  on  the  wall  near  the 
window  where  everybody  can  see  is  a  case  of  but 
terflies  impaled  on  pins  and  covered  by  a  glass. 
IsTo,  you  wouldn't  think  the  Doctor's  office  a  grew- 
some  place,  and  you  certainly  wouldn't  think  the 
Doctor  was  a  grewsome  person — not  when  you 
come  to  know  him. 

If  you  met  him  out  on  Sunday  afternoon  in  his 
black  clothes,  white  neck-cloth,  and  well-brushed 
hat,  his  gray  hair  straggling  over  his  coat-collar, 
pounding  his  cane  on  the  pavement  as  he  walked, 
you  would  say  he  had  a  Sunday-school  class  some 
where.  If  you  should  come  upon  him  suddenly, 
seated  before  his  fire,  his  gold  spectacles  clinging 
to  his  finely  chiselled  nose,  his  thoughtful  face 
bending  over  his  book,  you  would  conclude  that 
you  had  interrupted  some  savant,  and  bow  your 
self  out. 

But  you  must  ring  his  bell  at  night — say  two 
o'clock  A.M.  ;  catch  his  cheery  voice  calling  through 
the  tube  from  his  bedroom  in  the  rear — "Yes; 
coming  right  away — be  there  soon  as  I  get  my 
clothes  on" — feel  the  strength  and  sympathy  and 
readiness  to  help  in  the  man,  and  try  to  keep  step 
with  him  as  he  hurries  on,  and  then  watch  him 
when  he  enters  the  sick-room,  diffusing  hope  and 
134 


"DOC"    SHIPMAN'S   FEE 

cheer  and  confidence,  and  listen  to  the  soft,  sooth 
ing  tones  of  his  voice,  before  you  really  get  at  the 
inside  lining  of  "Doc"  Shipman. 

All  this  brings  me  to  the  story.  Of  course,  I 
could  have  told  you  the  bare  facts  without  giving 
you  an  idea  of  the  man  and  his  surroundings,  but 
that  wouldn't  be  fair  to  you,  for  you  would  have 
missed  knowing  the  Doctor,  and  I  the  opportunity 
of  introducing  him  to  you. 

We  were  sitting  in  the  old-fashioned  office, 
then,  one  snowy  night  in  January,  the  Doctor 
leaning  back  in  his  chair,  his  meerschaum  pipe  in 
his  mouth — the  one  with  the  gold  cap  that  a  long- 
ago  patient  gave  him — when  he  straightened  his 
back  and  tugged  at  his  fob,  bringing  to  the  sur 
face  a  small  gold  watch — one  I  had  not  seen 
before. 

"Where's  the  silver  one  ?"  I  asked,  referring 
to  an  old  silver-backed  watch  I  had  seen  him 
wear. 

The  Doctor  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"That's  in  the  drawer.  I  don't  wear  it  any 
more — not  since  I  got  this  one  back." 

"What  happened  ?    Was  it  broken  2" 

"No,  stolen." 

"When?" 

"Oh,  some  time  ago.  Help  yourself  to  a  cigar 
and  I'll  tell  you  about  it. 

"One  night  last  summer  I  came  in  late,  took 
off  my  coat  and  vest,  hung  them  on  a  chair  by  the 
135 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

•window  and  went  to  bed,  leaving  the  sashes  ajar, 
for  it  was  terribly  hot  and  I  wanted  a  draught  of 
air  through  from  my  bedroom." 

(I  must  tell  my  reader  here  that  the  Doctor  is 
a  born  story-teller  and  something  of  an  actor  as 
well.  He  seldom  explains  his  characters  or  situa 
tions  as  he  goes  on  by  putting  in  "I  said"  and  "he 
said"  and  similar  expressions.  You  know  by  the 
tones  of  his  voice  who  is  speaking,  and  his  gestures 
supply  the  rest.) 

"I  always  carried  this  watch  in  my  vest-pocket. 
I  carry  it  now  inside  my  waistband  so  they  will 
have  to  pull  me  to  pieces  to  get  it. 

"Well,  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning — I 
had  just  heard  the  old  clock  in  the  tower  strike, 
and  was  dozing  off  to  sleep  again — a  footstep 
awoke  me  to  consciousness.  I  looked  through  these 
doors" — here  the  Doctor  was  pointing  to  the  fold 
ing  doors  of  the  office  where  we  sat — "and  through 
my  bedroom  saw  the  dim  outline  of  a  man  moving 
about  this  room.  He  had  my  vest  and  trousers 
over  his  arm.  I  sprang  up,  but  he  was  too  quick 
for  me,  and  before  I  could  reach  him  he  had 
slipped  through  the  windows  out  on  to  the  porch, 
down  the  yard,  through  the  gate,  and  was  gone. 

"With  him  went  my  mother's  watch,  whicli  was 
in  the  upper  vest-pocket,  and  some  fifty  dollars  in 
money.  I  didn't  mind  the  money,  but  I  did  the 
watch.  It  was  my  mother's,  a  present  from  my 
father  when  they  were  first  married,  and  had  the 
136 


"DOC"    SHIPMAN'S   FEE 

initials  'E.  M.  8.  from  J.  H.  $.'  engraved  on  the- 
under  side  of  the  case.  When  she  died  I  pasted 
the  dear  old  lady's  photograph  inside  the  upper 
lid.  I  know  almost  everybody  around  here,  and 
they  all  know  me ;  they  come  in  here  with  broken 
heads  for  me  to  sew  up,  and  stab  wounds,  and 
such-like  misfortunes,  and  when  they  heard  what 
had  happened  to  me  they  all  did  what  they 
could. 

"The  Captain  of  the  precinct  came  around,  and 
everybody  was  very  sorry,  and  they  hunted  the 
pawnshops,  and  I  offered  a  reward — in  fact,  did 
all  the  foolish  things  you  do  when  you  have  lost 
something  you  think  a  heap  of.  But  no  trace  of 
the  watch  could  be  found,  and  so  I  gave  it  up  and 
tried  to  forget  it  and  couldn't.  That's  why  I 
bought  that  cheap  silver  one.  My  only  clew  to 
the  thief  was  the  glimpse  I  had  of  a  scar  on  his 
cheek  and  a  slight  dragging  of  his  foot  as  he 
stepped  about  my  room. 

"One  night  last  autumn  there  came  a  ring  at  the 
bell,  and  I  let  in  a  man  with  a  slouch  hat  pulled 
over  his  eyes  and  the  collar  of  his  coat  turned  up. 
He  was  soaking  wet,  the  water  oozing  from  his 
shoes  and  slopping  the  oilcloth  in  the  hall  where 
he  stood.  I  had  never  seen  him  before. 

"  'Doc,'  he  said,  'I  want  you.'  They  all  call 
me  'Doc'  around  here — especially  this  kind  of  a 
man — and  I  saw  right  away  where  he  belonged. 

"  'What  for  ?' 

137 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

"  'My  pal's  sick.' 

"  'What's  the  matter  with  him  ?' 

"  'Well,  he's  sick— took  bad.  He'll  die  if  he 
•don't  git  help.' 

"  'Where  is  he  ?' 

"  'Down  in  Washington  Street.' 

"  'Queer/  I  said  to  myself,  'his  wanting  me  to 
go  two  miles  from  here,  when  there  are  plenty  of 
doctors  nearer  by,'  and  so  I  said  to  him: 

"  'You  can  get  a  doctor  nearer  than  me.  I'm 
waiting  for  a  woman  case  and  may  be  sent  for  any 
minute.  Try  the  Dispensary  on  Canal  Street; 
they've  always  a  doctor  there.' 

"  'ISTo — we  don't  want  no  Dispensary  sharp. 
We  want  you.  Pal's  sent  me  for  you — he  knows 
you,  but  you  mightn't  remember  him.' 

"  'I'll  go.'  These  are  the  people  I  can  never 
refuse.  They  are  on  the  hunted  side  of  life  and 
don't  have  many  friends.  I  slipped  on  my  rub 
bers  and  coat,  picked  up  my  umbrella  and  my  bag 
with  my  instruments  in  it;  hung  a  card  in  the 
window  so  the  hall-light  would  strike  it,  marked 
'Back  in  an  hour' — in  case  the  woman  sent  for  me ; 
locked  my  door  and  started  after  him. 

"It  was  an  awful  night.  The  streets  were  run 
ning  rivers,  the  wind  rattling  the  shutters  and  flat 
tening  the  umbrellas  of  everybody  who  tried  to 
carry  one — one  of  those  storms  that  drives  straight 
at  the  front  of  the  house,  drenching  it  from  chim 
ney  to  sidewalk.  We  waited  under  the  gas-lamp, 
138 


"DOC"    SHERMAN'S   FEE 

boarded  a  Sixth  Avenue  car,  and  got  out  at  a  sig 
nal  from  my  companion.  During  the  trip  he  sat 
in  the  far  corner  of  the  car,  his  hat  slouched  over 
his  eyes,  his  coat-collar  covering  his  ears.  He  evi 
dently  did  not  want  to  be  recognized. 

"If  you  know  the  neighborhood  about  Washing 
ton  Street  you  know  it's  the  last  resort  of  the 
hunted.  When  they  want  to  hide,  they  burrow 
under  one  of  these  rookeries.  That's  where  the 
police  look  for  them,  only  they've  got  so  many 
holes  they  can't  stop  them  all.  Captain  Packett 
of  the  Ninth  Precinct  told  me  the  other  day  that 
he'd  rather  hunt  a  rattlesnake  in  a  tiger's  cage 
than  go  open-handed  into  some  of  the  rookeries 
around  Washington  Street.  I  am  never  afraid  in 
these  places;  a  doctor's  like  a  Sister  of  Charity 
or  a  hospital  nurse — they're  safe  anywhere.  I 
don't  believe  that  other  fellow  would  have  stolen 
my  watch  if  he  had  known  I  was  a  doctor. 

"When  we  left  the  car  at  Canal  Street,  my  com 
panion  whispered  to  me  to  follow  him,  no  matter 
where  he  went.  We  kept  along  close  to  the  houses, 
past  the  dives — the  streets,  even  here,  were  almost 
deserted;  then  I  saw  him  drop  down  a  cellarway. 
I  followed,  through  long  passages,  up  a  creaking 
pair  of  stairs,  along  a  deserted  corridor — only  one 
gas-jet  burning — up  a  second  flight  of  stairs  and 
into  an  empty  room,  the  door  of  which  he  opened 
with  a  key  which  he  held  in  his  hand.  He  waited 
until  I  passed  in,  locked  the  door  behind  us,  felt 
139 


THE   roTDER  DOG 

his  way  to  a  window,  the  glow  of  some  lights  in 
the  tenements  opposite  giving  the  only  light  in  the 
room,  and  raised  the  sash.  Then  down  a  fire- 
escape,  across  a  wooden  bridge,  which  was  evi 
dently  used  to  connect  the  two  buildings  ;  through 
an  open  door,  and  up  another  stairs.  At  the  end 
of  this  last  corridor  my  companion  pushed  open  a 
door. 

"  'Here's  the  "Doc,"  '  I  heard  him  say. 

"I  looked  into  a  room  about  as  big  as  this  we  sit 
in.  It  was  filled  with  men,  most  of  them  on  the 
floor  with  their  backs  to  the  wall.  There  was  a 
cot  in  one  corner,  and  a  pine  table  on  which  stood  a 
cheap  kerosene  lamp,  and  one  or  two  chairs.  The 
only  other  furniture  were  a  flour-barrel  and  a  dry- 
goods  box.  On  top  of  the  barrel  was  a  tin  coffee 
pot,  a  china  cup,  and  half  a  loaf  of  bread.  Against 
the  window  —  there  was  but  one  —  was  tacked  a 
ragged  calico  quilt,  shutting  out  air  and  light. 
Flat  on  the  floor,  where  the  light  of  the  lamp  fell 
on  his  face,  lay  a  man  dressed  only  in  his  trousers 
and  undershirt.  The  shirt  was  clotted  with  blood  ; 
so  were  the  mattress  under  him  and  the  floor. 

"  'Shot  ?'  I  asked  of  the  man  nearest  me. 


"I  knelt  down  on  the  floor  beside  him  and 
opened  his  shirt.  The  wound  was  just  above  the 
heart;  the  bullet  had  struck  a  rib,  missed  the  lungs, 
-and  gone  out  at  the  back.  Dangerous,  but  not 
necessarily  fatal. 

140 


"DOC"    SHIPMAN'S   FEE 

"The  man  turned  his  head  and  opened  his  eyes. 
He  was  a  stockily  built  fellow  of  thirty  with  a 
clean-shaven  face. 

"'Is  that  you,  "Doc"?' 

"  'Yes,  where  does  it  hurt  ?' 

"  '  "Doc"  Shipman — who  used  to  be  at  Belle- 
vue  five  or  six  years  ago  ?' 

"  'Yes — now  tell  me  where  the  pain  is.' 

"  'Let  me  look  at  you.  Yes — that's  him.  That's 
the  "Doc,"  boys.  Where  does  it  hurt? — Oh,  all 
around  here — back  worst' — and  he  passed  his 
hand  over  his  side. 

"I  looked  him  over  again,  put  in  a  few  stitches, 
and  fixed  him  up  for  the  night.  When  I  had  fin 
ished  he  said : 

"  'Come  closer,  "Doc" ;  am  I  going  to  die  ?' 

"  'No,  not  this  time ;  you'll  pull  through.  Close 
shave,  but  you'll  weather  it.  But  you  want  some 
air.  Here,  you  fellows' — and  I  motioned  to  two 
men  leaning  against  the  quilt  tacked  over  the  win 
dow — 'rip  that  off  and  open  that  window.  He's 
got  to  breathe — too  many  of  you  in  here,  anyway.' 

"One  of  the  men  moved  the  lidless  dry-goods 
box  against  the  wall,  picked  up  the  kerosene  lamp 
and  placed  it  inside,  smothering  its  light;  the 
other  tore  the  lower  end  of  the  quilt  from  the  sash, 
letting  in  the  fresh,  wet  night-air. 

"I  turned  to  the  wounded  man  again. 

"  'You  say  you've  seen  me  before  ?' 

"  'Yes,  once.  You  sewed  this  up' — and  he  held 
141 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

up  his  arm  showing  a  healed  scar.  'You've  forgot 
it,  but  I  haven't/ 

"'Where?' 

"  'Bellevue.  They  took  me  in  there.  You 
treated  me  white.  That's  why  my  pal  hunted  you 
up.  Say,  BilP — and  he  called  to  my  companion 
with  the  slouch  hat — 'pay  the  "Doc."  ' 

"Half  a  dozen  men  dove  instantly  into  their 
pockets,  but  my  companion  already  had  his  roll  of 
bills  in  his  hand.  He  bent  over  so  that  the  glow 
of  the  half-smothered  lamp  could  fall  upon  his 
hand,  unrolled  a  twenty-dollar  bill  and  handed  it 
to  me. 

"I  passed  it  back  to  him.  *I  don't  want  this. 
Five  dollars  is  my  fee.  If  you  haven't  anything 
smaller,  wait  till  I  come  to-morrow,  then  you  can 
give  me  a  ten.  I'm  ready  to  go  now;  lead  the 
way  out.' 

"Xext  morning  I  went  to  see  him  again.  Bill, 
by  arrangement,  met  me  at  the  corner  of  the  street 
and  took  me  to  the  wounded  man's  room,  in  and 
out,  by  the  same  route  we  had  taken  the  night  be 
fore.  I  found  he  had  passed  a  good  night,  had 
no  fever,  and  was  all  right.  I  left  some  medicine 
and  directions,  got  my  ten  dollars,  and  never  went 
again. 

"Last  month,  some  two  days  before  Christmas, 

I  was  sitting  here  reading — it  was  after  twelve 

o'clock — when  I  heard  a  tap  on  the  window-pane. 

I  pushed  aside  the  shade  and  looked  out.    A  thick- 

143 


"DOC"    SHIPMA^T'S   FEE 

set  man  motioned  me  to  open  the  door.     When  he 
got  inside  the  hall  he  said : 

"  'Ain't  forgot  me  again,  have  you,  "Doc"  ?' 

"  'Xo,  you're  the  man  I  fixed  up  in  Washington 
Street  last  fall.' 

"  'Yes,  that's  right,  "Doc" ;  that's  me.  Can  I 
come  in  ?  I  got  something  for  you.' 

"I  brought  him  in  and  he  sat  down  on  that  sofa. 
Then  he  pulled  out  a  package  from  his  inside 
pocket. 

"  '  "Doc,"  '  he  began,  'I  was  thinking  to-night 
of  what  you  done  for  me  and  how  you  did  it,  and 
how  decent  you've  been  about  it  always,  and  I 
thought  maybe  you  wouldn't  feel  offended  if  I 
brought  you  this  bunch  of  scarfpins  to  take  your 
pick  from' — and  he  unwrapped  the  bundle. 
'There's  a  pearl  one — that  might  please  you — and 
here's  another  that  sparkles — take  your  pick, 
"Doc."  It  would  please  me  a  heap  if  you  would' 
— and  he  handed  me  half  a  dozen  scarfpins 
stuck  in  a  flannel  rag — some  of  them  of  great 
value. 

"I  didn't  know  what  to  say  at  first.  I  couldn't 
get  mad.  I  saw  he  was  in  dead  earnest,  and  I 
saw,  too,  that  it  was  pure  gratitude  on  his  part 
that  prompted  him  to  do  it.  That's  a  kind  of 
human  feeling  you  don't  want  to  crush  out  in  a 
man.  When  he's  got  that,  no  matter  what  else  he 
lacks,  you've  got  something  to  build  on.  I  pulled 
out  the  pearl  pin  from  the  others.  I  wanted  to 
143 


THE   UNDEK  DOG 

get  time  to  make  up  my  mind  as  to  what  I  really 
ought  to  do. 

"  'Very  nice  pin/  I  said. 

"  'Yes,  I  thought  so.  I  got  it  on  a  Sixth  Ave 
nue  car.  Maybe  you'll  like  the  gold  one  better; 
take  your  pick,  it's  all  the  same  to  me.  That  one 
you've  got  in  your  hand  is  a  good  one.'  I  was 
slowly  looking  them  over,  making  up  my  mind 
how  I  would  refuse  them  and  not  hurt  his  feel 
ings. 

"  'How  did  you  get  this  one  ?'  I  asked,  holding 
up  the  pearl  pin. 

"  'I  picked  it  up  outside  Cooper  Union/ 

"  'On  the  sidewalk  ?' 

"  'No,  from  a  feller's  scarf.  I  held  the  cab 
door  for  him.'  He  spoke  exactly  as  if  he  had  been 
a  collector  who  had  been  roaming  the  world  for 
curios.  'Take  'em  both,  "Doc" — or  all  of  'em — 
I  mean  it.' 

"I  laid  the  bundle  on  the  table  and  said :  'Well, 
that's  very  kind  of  you  and  I  don't  want  you  to 
think  I  don't  appreciate  it — but  you  see  I  don't 
wear  scarfpins,  and  if  I  did  I  don't  think  I  ought 
to  take  these.  You  see  we  have  two  different  pro 
fessions — you've  got  yours  and  I've  got  mine.  I 
saw  off  men's  legs,  or  I  help  them  through  a  spell 
of  sickness.  They  pay  me  for  it  in  money.  You've 
got  another  way  of  making  your  living.  Your  pa 
tients  are  whoever  you  happen  to  meet.  I  mightn't 
like  your  way  of  doing,  and  you  mightn't  like 
144 


"DOC"    SHIPMAN'S   FEE 

mine.  That's  a  matter  of  opinion,  or,  perhaps,  of 
education.  You've  got  your  risks  to  run,  and 
I've  got  mine.  If  I  cut  too  deep  and  kill  a  man 
they  can  shut  me  up — just  as  they  can  if  you  get 
into  trouble.  But  I  don't  think  we  ought  to  mix 
up  the  proceeds.  You  wouldn't  want  me  to  give 
you  this  five-dollar  bill' — and  I  held  up  a  note  a 
patient  had  just  paid  me — 'and  therefore  I  don't 
see  how  I  ought  to  take  one  of  your  pins.  I  may 
not  have  made  it  plain  to  you — but  it  strikes  me 
that  way.' 

"  'Then  you  ain't  mad  'cause  I  brought  'em  ?' — • 
and  he  looked  at  me  searchingly  from  under  his 
dark  eyebrows,  his  lips  firmly  set. 

"  ']STo,  I'm  very  grateful  to  you  for  wanting  to 
give  them  to  me — only  I  don't  see  my  way  clear 
to  take  them.' 

"He  settled  back  on  the  sofa  and  began  twirling 
his  hat  with  his  hand.  Then  he  rose  from  his 
seat,  a  shade  of  disappointment  on  his  face,  and 
said,  slowly: 

"  'Well,  "Doc,"  ain't  there  something  else  I  can 
do  for  you  ?  Man  like  you  must  have  something 
you  want — something  you  can't  get  without  some 
body's  help.  Think  now — you  mightn't  see  me 
again.' 

"Instantly  I  thought  of  my  mother's  watch. 

"  'Yes,  there  is.  Somebody  came  along  one 
night  when  I  was  asleep  and  borrowed  my  vest 
hanging  over  that  chair  by  the  window,  and  my 
145 


THE    UNDER   DOG 

trousers,  and  my  mother's  watch  was  in  the  vest 
pocket.  If  you  could  help  me  get  that  back  you 
would  do  me  a  real  service — one  I  wouldn't  for 
get/ 

"  'What  kind  of  a  watch  ?' 

"I  described  it  closely,  its  inscription,  the  por 
trait  of  my  mother  in  the  case,  and  showed  him 
a  copy  of  her  photograph — like  the  one  here. 
Then  I  gave  him  as  close  a  description  of  the  man 
as  I  could. 

"When  I  had  described  the  scar  on  his  face  he 
looked  at  me  in  surprise.  When  I  added  that  he 
had  a  slight  limp,  he  said,  quickly: 

"  'Short  man — with  close-cropped  hair — and  a 
swipe  across  his  chin.  Lost  a  toe,  and  stumbles 
when  he  walks.  I'll  see  what  I  can  do.  He  ain't 
one  of  our  men.  He  comes  from  Chicago.  He 
never  stays  more'n  a  day  or  two  in  any  town. 
Don't  none  of  'em  know  him  round  here.  Leave 
it  to  me;  may  take  some  time — see  you  in  a  day 
or  two' — and  he  went  out. 

"I  didn't  see  him  for  a  month — not  until  two 
nights  ago.  He  didn't  ring  the  bell  this  time.  He 
came  in  through  the  window.  I  thought  the  catch 
was  down,  but  it  wasn't.  Funny  how  quick  these 
fellows  can  see  a  thing.  As  soon  as  he  shut  the 
glass  sash  behind  him  he  drew  the  curtains  close ; 
then  he  turned  down  the  gas.  All  this,  mind  you, 
before  he  had  opened  his  mouth.  Then  he  said : 

"  'Anybody  here  but  you  ?' 
146 


"DOC"    SHIPMAN'S   FEE 

« 'No.' 

"  'Sure  ?' 

"  'Yes,  very  sure.' 

"He  spoke  in  a  husky,  rasping  voice,  like  a  man 
who  had  caught  his  breath  again  after  a  long  run. 

"He  turned  his  back  to  the  window,  slipped  his 
hand  in  his  hip-pocket  and  pulled  out  my  mother's 
watch. 

"'Is  that  it,  "Doc"?' 

"The  light  was  pretty  low,  but  I'd  have  known 
it  in  the  dark. 

"  'Yes,  of  course  it  is — '  and  I  opened  the  lid  in 
search  of  the  old  lady's  photo.  'Where  did  you 
get  it  ?' 

"  'Look  again.     There  ain't  no  likeness.' 

"  ']STo,  but  here  are  the  marks  where  they 
scraped  it  off' — and  I  held  it  close  to  his  eyes. 
'WTiere  did  you  get  it  ?' 

"  'Don't  ask  no  questions,  "Doc."  I  had  some 
trouble  gittin'  next  the  goods,  and  maybe  it  ain't 
over  yet.  I'll  know  in  the  morning.  If  any 
body  asks  you  anything  about  it,  you  ain't  lost 
no  watch — see?  Last  time  you  seen  me  I  was 
goin'  West,  see — don't  forget  that.  That's  all, 
"Doc."  If  you're  pleased,  I'm  satisfied.' 

"He  held  out  his  hand  to  say  good-by,  but  I 
wouldn't  take  it.  His  appearance,  the  tone  of  his 
voice,  and  his  hunted  look  made  me  a  little  ner 
vous. 

"  'Sit  down.  You'll  let  me  pay  you  for  it, 
147 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

won't  you  ?  Wait  until  I  go  back  in  my  bedroom 
for  some  money.' 

"  'No,  "Doc,"  you  can't  pay  me  a  cent.  I'm 
sorry  they  got  the  mother's  picture,  but  I  couldn't 
catch  up  with  the  goods  before.  That  would  have 
been  the  best  part  of  it  for  me.  Mothers  is  scarce 
now — kind  you  and  me  had — dead  or  alive.  You 
won't  mind  if  I  turn  out  the  gas  while  I  slip  out, 
do  you,  and  you  won't  mind  either  if  I  ask  you  to 
sit  still  here.  Somebody  might  see  you — '  and  he 
shook  my  hand  and  started  for  the  window.  As 
his  hand  neared  the  latch  I  could  see  in  the  dim 
light  that  his  movements  were  unsteady.  Once  he 
stumbled  and  clutched  at  the  bookcase  for  sup- 
•  port 

"  'Hold  on/  I  said — and  I  walked  rapidly 
toward  him — 'don't  go  yet — you  are  not  well.' 

"He  leaned  against  the  bookcase  and  put  his 
hand  to  his  side. 

"I  was  alongside  of  him  now,  my  arm  under 
his,  guiding  him  into  a  chair. 

"  'Are  you  faint  ?' 

"  <Yes— got  a  drop  of  anything,  "Doc"?  That's 
all  I  want.  It  ain't  nothing.' 

"I  opened  my  closet,  took  out  a  bottle  of  brandy 
and  poured  some  into  a  measuring-glass.  He 
drank  it,  leaned  his  head  for  an  instant  against 
my  arm  and,  with  the  help  of  my  hand  slipped 
under  his  armpit,  again  struggled  to  his  feet. 

"When  I  withdrew  my  hand  it  was  covered 
148 


"DOC"    SHIPMAN'S   FEE 

with  blood.  It  was  too  dark  to  see  the  color,  but 
I  knew  from  the  sticky  feeling  of  it  just  what  it 
was. 

"  'My  God !  man/  I  cried ;  'you  are  hurt,  your 
shirt's  all  bloody.  Come  back  here  until  I  can  see 
what's  the  matter.' 

"  'No,  "Doc" — no!  I  tell  you.  It's  stopped 
bleeding  now.  It  would  be  tough  for  you  if  they 
pinched  me  here.  Keep  away,  I  tell  you — I  ain't 
got  a  minute  to  lose.  I  didn't  want  to  hurt  him 
even  after  he  gave  me  this  one  in  my  back,  but 
his  girl  was  wearing  it  and  there  warn't  no  other 
way.  Git  behind  them  curtains,  "Doc."  Sol 
Good-by.' 

"And  he  was  gone." 


149 


PLAIN  FIN— PAPER-HANGER 


PLAIN   FIN— PAPER-HANGER 


The  man  was  a  little  sawed-off,  red-headed 
Irishman,  with  twinkling,  gimlet  eyes,  two  up- 
curved  lips  always  in  a  broad  smile,  and  a  pair 
of  thin,  caliper-shaped  legs. 

His  name  was  as  brief  as  his  etature. 

"Fm,  your  honor,  by  the  grace  of  God.  F-i-n, 
Fin.  There  was  a  'Mac'  in  front  of  it  once,  and 
an  V  to  the  tail  of  it  in  the  old  times,  so  me 
mother  says,  but  some  of  me  ancisters — bad  cess 
to  'em ! — wiped  ?em  out.  Plain  Fin,  if  you  plase, 
sor." 

The  punt  was  the  ordinary  Thames  boat:  a 
long,  narrow,  flat-bottomed,  shallow  craft  with 
tapering  ends  decked  over  to  serve  as  seats,  the 
whole  propelled  by  a  pole  the  size  of  a  tight-rope 
dancer's  and  about  as  difficult  to  handle. 

Chartering  the  punt  had  been  easy.  All  I  had 
had  to  do  was  to  stroll  down  the  path  bordering 
the  river,  run  my  eye  over  a  group  of  boats  lying 
side  by  side  like  a  school  of  trout  with  their  noses 
up-stream,  pick  out  the  widest,  flattest,  and  least 
upsettable  craft  in  the  fleet,  decorate  it  with  a  pair 
153 


THE  UNDER  DOG 

of  Turkey-red  cushions  from  a  pile  in  the  boat- 
house,  and  a  short  mattress,  also  Turkey-red — a 
good  thing  at  luncheon-hour  for  a  tired  back  is 
a  mattress — slip  the  key  of  the  padlock  of  the 
mooring-chain  in  my  pocket  and  stroll  back  again. 

The  hiring  of  the  man  for  days  after  my  arrival 
at  Sonning-on-Thames,  was  more  difficult,  well- 
nigh  impossible,  except  at  a  price  per  diem  which 
no  staid  old  painter — they  are  all  an  impecunious 
lot — could  afford.  There  were  boys,  of  course,  for 
the  asking;  sunburnt,  freckle-faced,  tousle-headed, 
barefooted  little  devils  who,  when  my  back  was 
turned,  would  do  handsprings  over  my  cushions, 
landing  on  the  mattress,  or  break  the  pole  the  first 
day  out,  leaving  me  high  and  dry  on  some  island 
out  of  calling  distance;  but  full-grown,  sober- 
minded,  steady  men,  who  could  pole  all  day  or 
sit  beside  me  patiently  while  I  worked,  hand  me 
the  right  brush  or  tube  of  color,  or  palette,  or  open 
a  bottle  of  soda  without  spilling  half  of  it — that 
kind  of  man  was  scarce. 

Landlord  Hull,  of  the  White  Hart  Inn — what 
an  ideal  Boniface  is  this  same  Hull,  and  what  an 
ideal  inn — promised  a  boatman  to  pole  the  punt 
and  look  after  my  traps  when  the  Henley  regatta 
was  over;  and  the  owner  of  my  own  craft,  and  of 
fifty  other  punts  besides,  went  so  far  as  to  say  that 
he  expected  a  man  as  soon  as  Lord  Somebody-or- 
Other  left  for  the  Continent,  when  His  Lordship's 
waterman  would  be  free,  adding,  meaningly: 
154 


PLAIN  FIN— PAPER-HANGER 

"Just  at  present,  zur,  when  we  do  be  'avin'  sicli 
a  mob  lot  from  Lunnon,  'specially  at  week's-end, 
zur,  we  ain't  got  men  enough  to  do  our  own  polin'. 
It's  the  war,  zur,  as  has  took  'em  off.  Maybe 
for  a  few  day,  zur,  ye  might  take  a  'and  yerself 
if  ye  didn't  mind." 

I  waved  the  hand  referred  to — the  forefinger 
part  of  it — in  a  deprecating  manner.  I  couldn't 
pole  the  lightest  and  most  tractable  punt  ten  yards 
in  a  straight  line  to  save  my  own  or  anybody  else's 
life.  Then  again,  if  I  should  impair  the  precision 
of  my  five  fingers  by  any  such  violent  exercise,  my 
brush  would  wabble  as  nervously  over  my  canvas 
as  a  recording  needle  across  a  steam-gauge.  Poling 
a  rudderless,  keelless  skiff  up  a  crooked  stream  by 
means  of  a  fifteen-foot  balancing  pole  is  an  art 
only  to  be  classed  with  that  of  rowing  a  gondola. 
Gondoliers  and  punters,  like  poets,  are  born,  not 
made.  My  own  Luigi  comes  of  a  race  of  gondo 
liers  dating  back  two  hundred  years,  and  punters 
must  spring  from  just  such  ancestors.  No,  if  I 
had  to  do  the  poling  myself,  I  should  rather  get  out 
and  walk. 

Fin  solved  the  problem — not  from  any  special 
training  (rowing  in  regattas  and  the  like),  but 
rather  from  that  universal  adaptability  of  the 
Irishman  which  fits  him  for  filling  any  situation 
in  life,  from  a  seat  on  a  dirt-cart  to  a  chair  in  an 
aldermanic  chamber. 

"I  am  a  paper-hanger  by  trade,  sor,"  he  began, 
155 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

"but  I  was  brought  up  on  the  river  and  can  put 
a  punt  wid  the  best.  Try  me,  sor,  at  four  bob  a 
day ;  I'm  out  of  a  job." 

I  looked  him  over,  from  his  illuminated  head 
down  to  his  parenthetical  legs,  caught  the  merry 
twinkle  in  his  eyes,  and  a  sigh  of  relief  escaped 
me.  Here  was  not  only  a  seafaring  man,  accus 
tomed  to  battling  with  the  elements,  skilled  in  the 
handling  of  poles,  and  acquainted  with  swift  and 
ofttimes  dangerous  currents,  but  a  brother  brush, 
a  man  conversant  with  design  and  pigments;  an 
artist,  keenly  sensitive  to  straight  lines,  har 
mony  of  tints,  and  delicate  manipulation  of  sur 
faces. 

I  handed  him  the  key  at  once.  Thenceforward 
I  was  simply  a  passenger  depending  on  his  strong 
right  arm  for  guidance,  and  at  luncheon-hour 
upon  his  alert  and  nimble,  though  slightly  in 
curved,  legs  for  sustenance,  the  inn  being  often  a 
mile  away  from  my  subject. 

And  the  inns! — or  rather  my  own  particular 
inn — the  White  Hart  at  Sonning. 

There  are  others,  of  course — the  Red  Lion  at 
Henley;  the  old  Warboys  hostelry  at  Cookham; 
the  Angler  at  Marlowe;  the  French  Horn  across 
the  black  water  and  within  rifle-shot  of  the  White 
Hart — a  most  pretentious  place,  designed  for  mil- 
lionnaires  and  spendthrifts,  where  even  chops  and 
tomato-sauce,  English  pickles,  chowchow  and  the 
like,  ales  in  the  wood  and  other  like  commodities 
156 


PLAIN  YIN— PAPER-HANGER 

and  comforts,  are  dispensed  at  prices  that  compel 
all  impecunious,  staid  painters  like  myself  to 
content  themselves  with  a  sandwich  and  a  pint 
of  bitter — and  a  hundred  other  inns  along  the 
river,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent.  But  yet  with  all 
their  charms  I  am  still  loyal  to  my  own  "White 
Hart. 

Mine  is  an  inn  that  sets  back  from  the  river 
with  a  rose-garden  in  front  the  like  of  which  you 
never  saw  nor  smelt  of:  millions  of  roses  in  a 
never-ending  bloom.  An  inn  with  low  ceilings,  a 
cubby-hole  of  a  bar  next  the  side  entrance  on  the 
village  street;  two  barmaids — three  on  holidays; 
old  furniture;  a  big  fireplace  in  the  hall;  red- 
shaded  lamps  at  night;  plenty  of  easy-chairs  and 
cushions.  An  inn  all  dimity  and  cretonne  and 
brass  bedsteads  upstairs  and  unlimited  tubs — one 
fastened  to  the  wall  painted  white,  and  about  eight 
feet  long,  to  fit  the  largest  pattern  of  Englishman. 
Out  under  the  portico  facing  the  rose-garden  and 
the  river  stand  tables  for  two  or  four,  with  snow- 
white  cloths  made  gay  with  field-flowers,  and  the 
whole  shaded  by  big,  movable  Japanese  umbrellas, 
regular  circus-tent  umbrellas,  their  staffs  stuck  in 
the  ground  wherever  they  are  needed.  Along  the 
sides  of  this  garden  on  the  gravel-walk  loll  go-to- 
sleep  straw  chairs,  with  little  wicker  tables  within 
reach  of  your  hand  for  B.  &  S.,  or  tea  and  toast, 
or  a  pint  in  a  mug,  and  down  at  the  water's  edge 
seafaring  men  like  Fin  and  me  find  a  boat-house 
157 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

with  half  a  score  of  punts,  skiffs,  and  rowboats, 
together  with  a  steam-launch  with  fires  banked 
ready  for  instant  service. 

And  the  people  in  and  about  this  White  Hart 
inn! 

There  are  a  bride  and  groom,  of  course.  No 
well-regulated  Thames  inn  can  exist  a  week  with 
out  a  bride  and  groom.  He  is  a  handsome,  well- 
knit,  brown-skinned  young  fellow,  who  wears 
white  flannel  trousers,  chalked  shoes,  a  shrimp- 
colored  flannel  jacket  and  a  shrimp-colored  cap 
(Leander's  colors)  during  the  day,  and  a  fault 
lessly  cut  dress-suit  at  night. 

She  has  a  collection  of  hats,  some  as  big  as 
small  tea-tables ;  fluffy  gowns  for  mornings ;  short 
frocks  for  boating;  and  a  gold  belt,  two  shoulder- 
straps,  and  a  bunch  of  roses  for  dinner.  They 
have  three  dogs  between  them — one  four  inches 
long — well,  perhaps  six,  to  be  exact — another  a 
bull  terrier,  and  a  third  a  St.  Bernard  as  big  as 
a  Spanish  burro.  They  have  also  a  maid,  a  valet, 
and  a  dog-cart,  besides  no  end  of  blankets,  whips, 
rugs,  canes,  umbrellas,  golf-sticks,  and  tennis-bats. 
They  have  stolen  up  here,  no  doubt,  to  get  away 
from  their  friends,  and  they  are  having  the  happi 
est  hours  of  their  lives. 

"Them  two,  sor,"  volunteers  Fin,  as  we  pass 

them  lying  under  the  willows  near  my  morning 

subject,  "is  as  chuck-full  of  happiness  as  a  hive's 

full  of  bees.     They  was  out  in  their  boat  yister- 

158 


PLAIN  YIN— PAPER-HANGER 

day,  sor,  in  all  that  pour,  and  it  rolled  off  'em 
same  as  a  duck  sheds  water,  and  they  laughin'  so 
ye'd  think  they'd  split.  What's  dresses  to  them, 
sor,  and  her  father  ?  Why,  sor,  he  could  buy  and 
sell  half  Sonnin'.  He's  jist  home  from  Africa  that 
chap  is — or  he  was  the  week  he  was  married — wid 
more  lead  inside  him  than  would  sink  a  corpse. 
You  kin  see  for  yerself  that  he's  made  for  fightin'. 
Look  at  the  eye  on  him !" 

Then  there  is  the  solitary  Englishman,  who 
breakfasts  by  himself,  and  has  the  morning  paper 
laid  beside  his  plate  the  moment  the  post-cart  ar 
rives.  Fin  and  I  find  him  half  the  time  on  a 
bench  in  a  cool  place  on  the  path  to  the  Lock,  his 
nose  in  his  book,  his  tightly  furled  umbrella  by 
his  side.  No  dogs  nor  punts  nor  spins  up  the  river 
for  him.  He  is  taking  his  holiday  and  doesn't 
want  to  be  meddled  with  or  spoken  to. 

There  are,  too,  the  customary  maiden  sisters — 
the  unattended  and  forlorn — up  for  a  week;  and 
the  young  fellow  down  from  London,  all  flannels 
and  fishing-rods — three  or  four  of  them  in  fact, 
who  sit  round  in  front  of  the  little  sliding  wicket 
facing  the  row  of  bottles  and  pump-handles — 
divining-rods  for  the  beer  below,  these  pump- 
handles — chaffing  the  barmaids  and  getting  as 
good  as  they  send;  and  always,  at  night,  one  or 
more  of  the  country  gentry  in  for  their  papers, 
and  who  can  be  found  in  the  cosey  hall  discussing 
the  crops,  the  coming  regatta,  the  chance  of  Lean- 
159 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

der's  winning  the  race,  or  the  latest  reports  of 
yesterday's  cricket-match. 

Now  and  then  the  village  doctor  or  miller — 
quite  an  important  man  is  the  miller — you  would 
think  so  if  you  could  see  the  mill — drops  in, 
draws  up  a  chair,  and  ventures  an  opinion  on  the 
price  of  wheat  in  the  States  or  the  coal  strike  or 
.some  kindred  topic,  the  coming  country  fair,  or 
perhaps  the  sermon  of  the  previous  Sunday. 

"I  hope  you  'card  our  Vicar,  sir — No  ?  Sorry 
you  didn't,  sir.  I  tell  yer  Vs  a  nailer." 

And  so  much  for  the  company  at  the  White 
Bart  Inn. 

II 

You  perhaps  think  that  you  know  the  Thames. 
You  have  been  at  Henley,  no  doubt,  during  re 
gatta  week,  when  both  banks  were  flower-beds  of 
blossoming  parasols  and  full-blown  picture-hats, 
the  river  a  stretch  of  silver,  crowded  with  boats, 
their  occupants  cheering  like  mad.  Or  you  know 
Marlowe  with  its  wide  stream  bordered  with 
stately  trees  and  statelier  mansions,  and  Oxford 
with  its  grim  buildings,  and  Windsor  dominated 
by  its  huge  pile  of  stone,  the  flag  of  the  Empires 
floating  from  its  top;  and  Maidenhead  with  its 
boats  and  launches,  and  lovely  Cookham  with  its 
back  water  and  quaint  mill  and  quainter  lock. 
You  have  rowed  down  beside  them  all  in  a  shell, 
160 


PLAIN  FEST— PAPEK-HANGER 

or  have  had  glimpses  of  them  from  the  train,  or 
sat  under  the  awnings  of  the  launch  or  regular 
packet  and  watched  the  procession  go  by.  All 
very  charming  and  interesting,  and,  if  you  had 
but  forty-eight  hours  in  which  to  see  all  England, 
a  profitable  way  of  spending  eight  of  them.  And 
yet  you  have  only  skimmed  the  beautiful  river's 
surface  as  a  swallow  skims  a  lake. 

Try  a  punt  once. 

Pole  in  and  out  of  the  little  back  waters,  lying 
away  from  the  river,  smothered  in  trees ;  float  over 
the  shallows  dotted  with  pond-lilies;  creep  under 
drooping  branches  swaying  with  the  current ;  stop 
at  any  one  of  a  hundred  landings,  draw  your  boat 
up  on  the  gravel,  spring  out  and  plunge  into  the 
thickets,  flushing  the  blackbirds  from  their  nests, 
or  unpack  your  luncheon,  spread  your  mattress, 
and  watch  the  clouds  sail  over  your  head.  Don't 
be  in  a  hurry.  Keep  up  this  idling  day  in  and  day 
out,  up  and  down,  over  and  across,  for  a  month  or 
more,  and  you  will  get  some  faint  idea  of  how 
picturesque,  how  lovely,  and  how  restful  this 
rarest  of  all  the  sylvan  streams  of  England  can  be. 

If,  like  me,  you  can't  pole  a  punt  its  length 
without  running  into  a  mud-bank  or  afoul  of  the 
bushes,  then  send  for  Ein.  If  he  isn't  at  Sonning 
you  will  hear  of  him  at  Cookham  or  Marlowe  or 
London — but  find  him  wherever  he  is.  He  will 
prolong  your  life  and  loosen  every  button  on  your 
waistcoat.  Ein  is  the  unexpected,  the  ever-bub- 
161 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

bling,  and  the  ever-joyous;  restless  as  a  school-boy 
ten  minutes  before  recess,  quick  as  a  grasshopper 
and  lively  as  a  cricket.  He  is,  besides,  brimful 
and  spilling  over  with  a  quality  of  fun  that  is 
geyserlike  in  its  spontaneity  and  intermittent  flow. 
When  he  laughs,  which  he  does  every  other  min 
ute,  the  man  ploughing  across  the  river,  or  the  boy 
fishing,  or  the  girl  driving  the  cow,  turn  their 
heads  and  smile.  They  can't  help  it.  In  this  re 
spect  he  is  better  than  a  dozen  farmers  each  with 
his  two  blades  of  grass.  Fin  plants  a  whole  acre 
of  laughs  at  once. 

On  one  of  my  joyous  days — they  were  all  joy 
ous  days,  this  one  most  of  all — I  was  up  the  back 
water,  the  "Mud  Lark"  (Fin's  name  for  the  punt) 
anchored  in  her  element  by  two  poles,  one  at  each 
end,  to  keep  her  steady,  when  Fin  broke  through 
a  new  aperture  and  became  reminiscent. 

I  had  dotted  in  the  outlines  of  the  old  footpath 
with  the  meadows  beyond,  the  cotton-wool  clouds 
sailing  overhead — only  in  England  do  I  find  these 
clouds — and  was  calling  to  the  restless  Irishman 
to  sit  still  or  I  would  send  him  ashore  .  .  .  wet, 
when  he  answered  with  one  of  his  bubbling  out 
breaks  :  « 

"I  don't  wonder  yer  hot,  sor,  but  I  git  that 
fidgety.  I  been  so  long  doin'  nothin' ;  two  months 
now,  sor,  since  I  been  on  a  box." 

I  worked  on  for  a  minute  without  answering. 
Hanging  wall-paper  by  standing  on  a  box  was 
162 


PLAIN  FIN— PAPER-HANGER 

probably  the  way  they  did  it  in  the  country,  the 
ceilings  being  low. 

"No  work?"  I  said,  aimlessly.  As  long  as  he 
kept  still  I  didn't  care  what  he  talked  or  laughed 
about. 

"Plinty,  sor — an'  summer's  the  time  to  do  it. 
So  many  strangers  comin'  an'  goin',  but  they  won't 
let  me  at  it.  I'm  laid  off  for  a  month  yet;  that's 
why  your  job  come  in  handy,  sor." 

"Row  with  your  Union?"  I  remarked,  listlessly, 
my  mind  still  intent  on  watching  a  sky  tint  above 
the  foreground  trees. 

"No — wid  the  perlice.  A  little  bit  of  a  scrim 
mage  wan  night  in  Trafalgar  Square.  It  was  me 
own  fault,  sor,  for  I  oughter  a-knowed  better.  It 
was  about  three  o'clock  in  the  mornin',  sor,  and  I 
was  outside  one  o'  them  clubs  just  below  Picca 
dilly,  when  one  o'  them  young  chaps  come  out  wid 
three  or  four  others,  all  b'ilin'  drunk — one  was 
Lord  Bentig — jumps  into  a  four-wheeler  standin' 
by  the  steps  an'  hollers  out  to  the  rest  of  us:  'A 
guinea  to  the  man  that  gits  to  Trafalgar  Square 
fust;  three  minutes'  start,'  and  off  he  wint  and  we 
after  him,  leavin'  wan  of  the  others  behind  wid  his 
watch  in  his  hand." 

I  laid  down  my  palette  and  looked  up.  Paper- 
hanging  evidently  had  its  lively  side. 

"Afoot  ?" 

"All  four  of  'em,  sor — lickety-split  and  hell's 
loose.  I  come  near  runnin'  over  a  bobbie  as  I 
163 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

turned  into  Pall  Mall,  but  I  dodged  him  and  kep* 
on  and  landed  second,  with  the  mare  doubled  up 
in  a  heap  and  the  rig  a-top  of  her  and  one  shaft 
broke.  Lord  Bentig  and  the  other  chaps  that  was 
wid  him  was  standin'  waitin',  and  when  we  all  fell 
in  a  heap  he  nigh  bu'st  himself  a-laughin'.  He 
went  bail  for  us,  of  course,  and  give  the  three  of 
us  ten  bob  apiece,  but  I  got  laid  off  for  three 
months,  and  come  up  here,  where  me  old  mother 
lives  and  I  kin  pick  up  a  job." 

"Hanging  paper  ?"  I  suggested  with  a  smile. 

"Yes,  or  anything  else.  Ye  see,  sor,  I'm  handy 
carpentering  or  puttin'  on  locks,  or  the  likes  o' 
that,  or  paintin',  or  paper-hangin',  or  mendin' 
stoves  or  tinware.  So  when  they  told  me  a  painter 
chap  wanted  me,  I  looked  over  me  perfessions  and 
picked  out  the  wan  I  tho't  would  suit  him  best. 
But  it's  drivin'  a  cab  I'm  good  at;  been  on  the 
box  fourteen  year  come  next  Christmas.  Ye  don't 
mind,  do  ye,  sor,  my  not  tellin'  ye  before  ?  Lord 
Bentig5!!  tell  ye  all  about  me  next  time  ye  see 
him  in  Lunnon."  This  touch  was  truly  Finian. 
"He's  cousin,  ye  know,  sor,  to  this  young  chap 
what's  here  at  the  inn  wid  his  bride.  They 
wouldn't  know  me,  sor,  nor  don't,  but  I've  driv 
her  father  many  a  time.  My  rank  used  to  be  near 
his  house  on  Bolton  Terrace.  I  had  a  thing  hap 
pen  there  one  night  that — more  water?  Yes,  sor 
— and  the  other  brush — the  big  one  ?  Yes,  sor — 
thank  ye,  sor.  I  don't  shake,  do  I,  sor  ?" 
164 


PLAIN  FIN— PAPER-HANGER 

"No,  Fin ;  go  on." 

"Well,  I  was  tellin'  ye  about  the  night  Sir 
Henry's  man — that's  the  lady's  father,  sor — come 
to  the  rank  where  I  sat  on  me  box.  It  was  about 
ten  o'clock — rainin'  hard  and  bad  goin',  it  was 
that  slippery. 

"  'His  Lordship  wants  ye  in  a  hurry,  Fin/  and 
he  jumped  inside. 

"When  I  got  there  I  see  something  was  goin' 
on — a  party  or  something — the  lights  was  lit  clear 
up  to  the  roof. 

"  'His  Lordship's  waitin'  in  the  hall  for  ye/ 
said  his  man,  and  I  jumped  off  me  box  and  wint 
inside. 

"  'Fin,'  said  His  Lordship,  speakin'  low,  'there's 
a  lady  dinin'  wid  me  and  the  wine's  gone  to  her 
head,  and  she's  that  full  that  if  she  waits  until 
her  own  carriage  comes  for  her  she  won't  git  home 
at  all !  Go  back  and  get  on  yer  cab  wid  yer  fingers- 
to  yer  hat,  and  I'll  bring  her  out  and  put  her  in 
meself.  It's  dark  and  she  won't  know  the  differ 
ence.  Take  her  down  to  Cadogan  Square — I  don't 
know  the  number,  but  ye  can't  miss  it,  for  it's 
the  fust  white  house  wid  geraniums  in  the  win 
ders.  When  ye  git  there  ye're  to  git  down,  help 
her  up  the  steps,  keepin'  yer  mouth  shut,  unlock 
the  door,  and  set  her  down  on  the  sofa.  You'll 
find  the  sofa  in  the  parlor  on  the  right,  and  can't 
miss  it.  Then  lay  the  key  on  the  mantel — here  it 
is.  After  she's  down,  step  out  softly,  close  the. 
165 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

door  behind  ye,  ring  the  bell,  and  some  of  her  ser 
vants  will  come  and  put  her  to  bed.  She's  often 
took  that  way  and  they  know  what  to  do.'  Then 
he  says,  lookin'  at  me  straight,  'I  sent  for  you, 
Fin,  for  I  know  I  kin  trust  ye.  Come  here  to 
morrow  and  let  me  know  how  she  got  through  and 
I'll  give  ye  five  bob.' 

"Well,  sor,  in  a  few  minutes  out  she  come, 
leanin'  on  His  Lordship's  arm,  steppin'  loike  she 
had  spring-halt,  and  takin'  half  the  sidewalk  to 
turn  in. 

"  'Gopd-night,  Your  Ladyship/  says  His  Lord 
ship. 

"  'Good-night,  Sir  Henry,'  she  called  back,  her 
head  out  of  the  winder,  and  off  I  driv. 

"I  turned  into  the  Square,  found  the  white 
house  wid  the  geraniums,  helps  her  out  of  me  cab 
and  steadied  her  up  the  steps,  pulled  the  key  out, 
and  was  just  goin'  to  put  it  in  the  lock  when  she 
fell  up  agin  the  door  and  open  it  went.  The  gas 
was  turned  low  in  the  hall,  so  that  she  wouldn't 
know  me  if  she  looked  at  me. 

"I  found  the  parlor,  but  the  lights  were  out ;  so 
widout  lookin'  for  the  sofa — I  was  afraid  some- 
body'd  come  and  catch  me — I  slid  her  into  a 
rockin'-chair,  laid  the  key  on  the  hall-table,  shut 
the  door  softlike,  rang  the  bell  as  if  there  was 
a  fire  next  door,  jumped  on  me  box,  and  driv 
off. 

"The  next  rnornin'  I  went  to  see  His  Lordship. 
166 


PLAIN  FIN— PAPER-HANGER 

"  'Did  ye  land  her  all  right,  Fin  ?' 

"  'I  did,  sor,'  I  says. 

"  'Had  ye  any  trouble  wid  the  key  ?' 

"  'No,  sor/  I  says,  'the  door  was  open.' 

"  'That's  queer,'  he  says ;  'maybe  her  husband 
came  in  earlier  and  forgot  to  shut  it.  And  ye  put 
her  on  the  sofa ' 

"  'No,  sor,  in  a  big  chair/ 

"  'In  the  parlor  on  the  right  ?' 

"  'No,  sor,  in  a  little  room  on  the  left — down 
one  step ' 

"He  stopped  and  looked  at  me. 

"  'Ye're  sure  ye  put  her  in  the  fust  white 
house  ?' 

"  'I  am,  sor.' 

"  'Wid  geraniums  in  the  winder  ?' 

"  'Yes,  sor.' 

"  'Red  ?'  he  says. 

"  'No,  white,'  I  says. 

"  'On  the  north  side  of  the  Square  ?' 

"  'No,'  I  says,  'on  the  south.' 

"  'My  God!  Fin,'  he  says,  'ye  left  her  in  the 
wrong  house!' ' 

It  was  I  who  shook  the  boat  this  time. 

"Oh,  ye  needn't  laugh,  sor;  it  was  no  laughin' 
matter.  I  got  me  five  bob,  but  I  lost  His  Lord 
ship's  custom,  and  I  didn't  dare  go  near  Cadogan 
Square  for  a  month." 

These  disclosures  opened  up  a  new  and  wider 
horizon.  Heretofore  I  had  associated  Fin  with 
167 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

simple  country  life — as  a  cheery  craftsman — a 
Jack-of -all-trades :  one  day  attired  in  overalls,  with 
paste-pot,  shears,  and  ladder,  brightening  the  walls 
of  the  humble  cottagers,  and  the  next  in  polo  cap 
and  ragged  white  sweater,  the  gift  of  some  summer 
visitor  (his  invariable  costume  with  me), adapting 
himself  to  the  peaceful  needs  of  the  river.  Here, 
on  the  contrary  and  to  my  great  surprise,  was  a 
cosmopolitan ;  a  man  versed  in  the  dark  and  devi 
ous  ways  of  a  great  city ;  familiar  with  life  in  its 
widest  sense ;  one  who  had  touched  on  many  sides 
and  who  knew  the  cafes,  the  rear  entrances  to  the 
theatres,  and  the  short  cut  to  St.  John's  Wood  with 
the  best  and  worst  of  them.  These  discoveries 
came  with  a  certain  shock,  but  they  did  not  impair 
my  interest  in  my  companion.  They  really  en 
deared  him  to  me  all  the  more. 

After  this  I  was  no  longer  content  with  listen 
ing  to  his  rambling  dissertations  on  whatever  hap 
pened  to  rise  in  his  memory  and  throat.  I  began 
to  direct  the  output.  It  was  not  a  difficult  task; 
any  incident  or  object,  however  small,  served  my 
purpose. 

The  four-inch  dog  acted  as  valve  this  morning. 

Somebody  had  trodden  on  His  Dogship;  some 
unfortunate  biped  born  to  ill-luck.  In  and  about 
Sonning  to  tread  on  a  dog  or  to  cause  any  animal 
unnecessary  pain  is  looked  upon  as  an  unforgive- 
able  crime.  Dogs  are  made  to  be  hugged  and 
coddled  and  given  the  best  cushion  in  the  boat. 
1G8 


PLAIN  FIN— PAPER-HANGER 

"''A  man,  a  girl,  and  a  dog"  is  as  common  as  "a 
man,  a  punt,  and  an  inn." 

Instantly  the  four-inch  morsel — four  inches, 
now  that  I  think  of  it,  is  about  right;  six  inches 
is  too  long — this  morsel,  I  say,  gave  a  yell  as 
shrill  as  a  launch-whistle  and  as  fetching  as  a 
baby's  cry.  Instantly  three  chambermaids,  two 
barmaids,  the  two  maiden  sisters  who  were  break 
fasting  on  the  shady  side  of  the  inn  gable,  and  the 
dog's  owner,  who,  in  a  ravishing  gown,  was  taking 
her  coffee  under  one  of  the  Japanese  umbrellas, 
came  rushing  out  of  their  respective  hiding-places, 
impelled  by  an  energy  and  accompanied  by  an  im- 
petuousness  rarely  seen  except  perhaps  in  some 
heroic  attempt  to  save  a  drowning  child  sinking 
for  the  last  time. 

"The  darlin' " — this  from  Katy  the  barmaid, 
who  reached  him  first — "who's  stomped  on  him?" 

"How  outrageous  to  be  so  cruel!" — this  from 
the  two  maiden  sisters. 

"Give  him  to  me,  Katy — oh,  the  brute  of  a 
man!" — this  from  the  fair  owner/ 

The  solitary  Englishman  with  his  book  and  his 
furled  umbrella,  who  in  his  absorption  had  com 
mitted  the  crime,  strode  on  without  even  raising 
his  hat  in  apology. 

"D d  little  beast  !w  I  heard  him  mutter  as 

he  neared  the  boat-house  where  Fin  and  I  were 
stowing  cargo.     "Ought  to  be  worn  on  a  watch- 
chain  or  in  her  buttonhole." 
169 


THE   UNDEE  DOG 

Fin  had  his  hand  on  his  lips  keeping  his  laugh 
ing  apparatus  in  order  until  the  solitary  disap 
peared  down  the  path  to  the  trees,  then  he  leaned 
my  way. 

"I  know  him,  sor,"  he  whispered.  "He's  a  bar 
rister  down  in  Temple  Bar.  He  don't  remember 
me,  sor,  but  I  know  him.  He's  always  treadin' 
on  something — something  alive — always,  sor,  and 
wid  both  feet!  He  trod  on  me  once.  I  thought 
it  was  him  when  I  see  him  fust — but  I  wasn't  sure 
till  I  asked  Landlord  Hull  about  him." 

"How  came  you  to  know  him  ?" 

"Well,  sor,  he  had  an  old  lady  on  his  list  two 
years  ago  that  was  always  disputin'  distances  and 
goin'  to  law  about  her  cab-fares.  I  picked  her  up 
one  day  in  St.  James  Street  and  druv  her  to  Ken 
sington  Gardens  and  charged  her  the  rates,  and  she 
kicked  and  had  me  up  before  the  magistrate,  and 
this  old  ink-bottle  appeared  for  her.  She's  rich 
and  always  in  hot  water.  Well,  we  had  it  meas 
ured  and  I  was  right,  and  it  cost  her  me  fare  and 
fifteen  bob  besides.  When  it  was  figured  up  she 
owed  me  sixpence  more  measurement  I  hadn't 
charged  her  for  the  first  time,  and  I  summoned 
her  and  made  her  pay  it  and  twelve  bob  more  to 
teach  her  manners.  What  pay  he  got  I  don't 
know,  but  I  got  me  sixpence.  He  was  born  back 
here  about  a  mile — that's  why  he  comes  here  for 
his  holiday." 

Fin  stopped  stowing  cargo — two  bottles  of  soda, 
170 


PLAIN  FIN— PAPER-HANGER 

a  piece  of  ice  in  a  bucket,  two  canvases,  my  big 
easel  and  a  lunch-basket — and  moving  his  cap 
back  from  his  freckled  forehead  said,  with  as  much 
gravity  as  he  could  maintain : 

"I  ought  to  have  been  a  barrister,  sor ;  I  started 
as  one." 

The  statement  did  not  surprise  me.  Had  he 
added  that  he  had  coached  the  winning  crew  of  the 
regatta  the  year  before,  laid  the  marquetry  floors 
of  Cliveden  (not  far  away),  or  led  the  band  at 
the  late  Lord  Mayor's  show,  I  should  have  re 
ceived  his  statements  with  equal  equanimity.  So 
I  simply  remarked,  "When  was  that,  Fin"?  quite 
as  I  should  had  I  been  gathering  details  for  his 
biography — my  only  anxiety  being  to  get  the  facts 
chronologically  correct. 

"When  I  was  a  gossoon  of  twenty,  sor — maybe 
eighteen — I'm  fifty  now,  so  it's  far  back  enough, 
God  knows.  And  it  all  happened,  too,  not  far 
from  that  old  ink-bottle's  place  in  Temple  Bar.  I 
was  lookin'  at  it  wan  day  last  winter  when  I  had 
a  fare  down  there  that  I  took  up  in  old  Bond 
Street.  I  did  the  sweepin'  out  and  startin'  fires. 
Wan  day  wan  of  the  clerks  got  fired  because  he 
couldn't  serve  a  writ  on  another  barrister  chap 
who  owed  a  bill  that  me  boss  was  tryin'  to  collect. 
Nobody  could  git  into  his  rooms,  try  every  way 
they  could.  He  had  nigh  broke  the  head  o'  wan 
o'  the  young  fellers  in  the  office  who  tried  it  the 
day  before.  He  niver  come  out,  but  had  his  grub 
171 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

sent  him.  This  had  been  goin'  on  for  a  month. 
All  kinds  o'  games  had  been  put  up  on  him  and 
he  beat  'em  all. 

"  'I'll  do  it/  I  says,  'in  a  week's  time  or  less.' 
The  manager  was  goin'  through  the  office  and 
heard  the  laugh  they  give  me.  'What's  this  ?'  he 
says,  cross  like.  'Fin  says  he  kin  serve  the  writ,' 
the  clerk  says.  'I  kin/  I  says,  startin'  up,  'or  I'll 
throw  up  me  job.' 

"  'Give  him  the  writ/  he  says,  'and  give  him 
two  days  off.  It  kin  do  no  harm  for  him  to  try.' 

"Well,  I  found  the  street,  and  went  up  the  stairs 
and  read  the  name  on  the  door  and  heard  some 
body  walkin'  around,  and  knew  he  was  in.  Then 
I  lay  around  on  the  other  side  o'  the  street  to 
see  what  I  could  pick  up  in  the  way  o'  the  habits 
o'  the  rat.  I  knew  he  couldn't  starve  for  a  week 
at  a  time,  and  that  something  must  be  goin'  in, 
and  maybe  I  could  follow  up  and  git  me  foot  in 
the  door  before  he  could  close  it ;  but  I  soon  found 
that  wouldn't  work.  Pretty  soon  a  can  o'  milk 
come  and  went  up  in  a  basket  that  he  let  down 
from  his  winder.  As  he  leaned  out  I  saw  his  head, 
and  it  was  a  worse  carrot  than  me  own.  Then 
along  come  a  man  with  a  bag  o'  coal  on  his  back 
and  a  bit  o'  card  in  his  hand  with  the  coal-yard  on 
it  and  the  rat's  name  underneath,  a-lookin'  up  at 
the  house  and  scratchin'  his  head  as  to  where  he 
was  goin'. 

"I  crossed  over  and  says,  'Who  are  ye  lookin* 
172 


PLAIN  Em— PAPER-HANGER 

for'?  And  lie  hands  me  the  card.  'I'm  his  man/ 
I  says,  'and  I  been  waitin'  for  ye — me  master's 
sick  and  don't  want  no  noise,  and  if  ye  make 
any  I'll  lose  me  place.  I'll  carry  the  bag  up 
and  dump  it  and  bring  ye  the  bag  back  and  a 
shillin'  for  yer  trouble.  Wait  here.  Hold  on/  I 
says;  'take  me  hat  and  let  me  have  yours,  for  I 
don't  git  a  good  hat  every  day,  and  the  bag's  that 
dirty  it'll  spile  it.' 

"  'Go  on/  he  says ;  'I've  carried  it  all  the  way 
from  the  yard  and  me  back's  broke.'  Well,  I 
pulled  his  hat  ever  me  eyes  and  started  up  the 
stairs  wid  the  bag  on  me  shoulder.  When  I  got  to 
the  fust  landin'  I  run  me  hands  over  the  bag,  git- 
tin'  'em  good  and  black,  then  I  smeared  me  face, 
and  up  I  went  another  flight. 

"  'Who's  there  ?'  he  says,  when  I  knocked. 

"  'Coals/  I  says. 

"  'Where  from  ?'  he  says. 

"I  told  him  the  name  on  the  card.  He  opened 
the  door  an  inch  and  I  could  see  a  chain  between 
the  crack. 

"  'Let  me  see  yer  face/  he  says.  I  twisted  it 
out  from  under  the  edge  of  the  bag.  'All  right/ 
he  says,  and  he  slipped  back  the  chain  and  in  I 
went,  stoopin'  down  as  if  it  weighed  a  ton. 

"  'Where'll  I  put  it  ?'  I  says. 

"  'In  the  box/  he  says,  walkin'  toward  the 
grate.  'Have  ye  brought  the  bill  ?' 

"  'I  have/  I  says,  still  keepin'  me  head  down. 
173 


THE   TJXDER  DOG 

'It's  in  me  side  pocket.  Pull  it  out,  please,  me 
hand's  that  dirty' — and  out  come  the  writ ! 

"Ye  ought  to  have  seen  his  face  when  he  read 
it.  He  made  a  jump  for  the  door,  but  I  got  there 
fust  and  downstairs  in  a  tumble,  and  fell  in  a 
heap  at  the  foot  with  everything  he  could  lay  his 
hands  on  comin'  after  me — tongs,  shovel,  and 
poker. 

"I  got  a  raise  of  five  bob  when  I  went  back  and 
ten  bob  besides  from  the  boss. 

"I  ought  to  have  stayed  at  the  law,  sor ;  I'd  be 
a  magistrate  by  now  a-sittin'  on  a  sheepskin  in 
stead  of 

"Where'll  I  put  this  big  canvas,  sor — up  agin 
the  bow  or  laid  flat  ?  The  last  coat  ain't  dry  yet," 
he  muttered  to  himself,  touching  my  picture  with 
his  finger  in  true  paper-hanger  style.  "Oh,  yes, 
I  see — all  ready,  sor,  ye  kin  step  in.  Same  place 
we  painted  yesterday,  sor? — up  near  the  mill? 
All  right,  sor."  And  we  pushed  out  into  the 
stream. 

These  talks  with  Fin  are  like  telephone  mes 
sages  from  the  great  city  hardly  an  hour  away. 
They  always  take  place  in  the  open,  while  I  am 
floating  among  pond-lilies  or  drifting  under  wide- 
spreading  trees,  their  drooping  leaves  dabbling  in 
the  silent  current  like  children's  fingers,  or  while 
I  am  sitting  under  skies  as  blue  as  any  that  bend 
above  my  Beloved  City  by  the  Sea;  often,  too, 
174 


PLAIN  FIN— PAPER-HANGER 

when  the  delicious  silence  about  me  is  broken  only 
by  the  lapping  of  the  water  around  my  punt,  the 
sharpening  of  a  bit  of  charcoal,  or  the  splash  of 
a  fish.  That  his  stories  are  out  of  key  with  my 
surroundings,  often  reminding  me  of  things  I 
have  come  miles  over  the  sea  to  forget,  somehow 
adds  to  their  charm. 

There  is  no  warning  given.  Suddenly,  and  ap 
parently  without  anything  that  leads  up  to  the 
subject  in  mind,  this  irrepressible  Irishman 
breaks  out,  and  before  I  am  aware  of  the  change, 
the  glory  of  the  morning  and  all  that  it  holds  for 
me  of  beauty  has  faded  out  of  the  slide  of  my 
mental  camera  and  another  has  taken  its  place. 
Again  I  am  following  Fin's  cab  through  the  mazes 
of  smoky,  seething  London,  now  waiting  outside  a 
concert-hall  for  some  young  blood,  or  shopping 
along  Regent  Street,  or  at  full  tilt  to  catch  a  Chan 
nel  train  at  Charing  Cross — each  picture  enriched 
by  a  running  account  of  personal  adventure  that 
makes  them  doubly  interesting 

"You  wouldn't  mind,  sor,"  he  begins,  "if  I  tell 
ye  of  a  party  of  three  I  took  home  from  a  grand 
ball — one  of  the  toppy  balls  of  the  winter,  in  one 
o'  them  big  halls  on  the  Strand?  Two  o'  them 
was  dressed  like  the  Royal  family  in  satins  that 
stuck  out  like  a  haystack  and  covered  with  dia 
monds  that  would  hurt  your  eyes  to  look  at 
'em — "  And  then  in  his  inimitable  dialect — im 
possible  to  reproduce  by  any  combination  of  vow- 
175 


THE   UKDEK  DOG 

els  at  my  command,  and  punctured  every  few  min 
utes  by  ringing  laughs  that  can  be  heard  half  a 
mile  away — follows  a  description  of  how  one  of 
his  fares,  Ikey  by  name,  the  son  of  the  stoutest 
of  the  women,  by  a  sudden  lurch  of  his  cab — 
Ikey  rode  outside — while  rounding  into  a  side 
street,  was  landed  in  the  mud. 

"Oh,  that  was  a  great  night,  sor,"  he  rattles  on. 
''Ye  ought  to  V  seen  him  when  I  picked  him  up. 
He  looked  as  if  they'd  been  a-swobbin'  the  cobbles 
wid  him.  'Oh,  me  son !  me  son !  it's  kilt  ye  are !' 
she  hollered  out,  clawin'  him  wid  both  hands,  and 
up  they  hauled  him  all  over  them  satin  dresses ! 
And  where  do  ye  think  I  took  'em,  sor  ?  To  Han- 
•over  Square,  or  out  by  St.  James  Park  ?  No,  sor, 
not  a  bit  of  it !  Down  in  an  alley  in  Whitechapel, 
sor,  that  ye'd  be  afraid  to  walk  through  after  sun 
down,  and  into  a  shop  wid  three  balls  over  it. 
What  do  ye  think  o'  that,  sor  ?" 

Or  he  launches  forth  into  an  account  of  how  he 
helped  to  rescue  a  woman's  child  from  the  clutches 
jof  her  brutal  husband ;  and  of  the  race  out  King's 
Road  followed  by  the  husband  in  a  hansom,  and 
•of  the  watchful  bobbie  who,  to  relieve  a  threatened 
block  in  the  street,  held  up  the  pursuing  hansom 
at  the  critical  moment,  thus  saving  the  escaping 
child,  half -smothered  in  a  blanket,  tight  locked  in 
its  mother's  arms,  and  earning  for  Fin  the  biggest 
fare  he  ever  got  in  his  life. 

"Think  of  it,  sor !    Fifteen  bob  for  goin'  a  mile, 


PLAIN  FIN— PAPER-HANGER 

she  a-hollerin'  all  the  time  that  she'd  double  the 
fare  if  I  kep'  ahead.  But,  Lord  love  ye,  sor,  she 
needn't  'a'  worried;  me  old  plug  had  run  in  the 
Derby  wance,  and  for  a  short  spurt  like  that  he 
was  game  back  to  the  stump  of  his  tail." 


When  the  last  morning  of  his  enforced  exile 
arrived  and  Fin,  before  I  was  half-dressed,  pre 
sented  himself  outside  my  bedroom  door,  an  open 
letter  in  his  hand,  not  a  trace  of  the  punt-poling 
Irishman  was  visible  in  his  make-up ! 

He  wore  a  glazed  white  tile,  a  yellow-brown 
coat  with  three  capes,  cut  pen-wiper  fashion,  and 
a  pair  of  corduroy  trousers  whose  fulness  con 
cealed  in  part  the  ellipse  of  his  legs. 

"Here's  a  letter  from  me  boss,  sor,"  he  blurted 
out,  holding  it  toward  me.  "He  says  I  kin  go  to 
work  in  the  mornin'.  Ye  don't  mind,  do  ye,  sor  ?" 

"Of  course  I  mind,  Fin ;  I'll  have  trouble  to  fill 
your  place.  Are  you  sorry  to  leave  ?" 

"Am  I  sorry,  sor  ?  No ! — savin'  yer  presence, 
I'm  glad.  What's  the  good  of  the  country,  any 
how,  sor,  except  to  make  picters  in?  Of  course, 
it's  different  wid  you,  sor,  not  knowin'  the  city, 
but  for  me — why  God  rest  yer  soul,  sor,  I  wouldn't 
give  one  cobble  of  the  Strand  no  bigger'n  me  fist 
for  the  best  farm  in  Surrey. 

"Call  me,  sor,  next  time  ye're  passin'  my  rank 
177  " 


THE   UNDEK  DOG 

1 — any  time  after  twelve  at  night,  and  I'll  show  ye 
fun  enough  to  last  ye  yer  life." 

Something  dropped  out  of  the  landscape  that 
day — something  of  its  brilliancy,  color,  and  charm. 
The  water  seemed  sluggish,  the  sky-tones  dull,  the 
meadows  flat  and  commonplace. 

It  must  have  been  Fin's  laugh! 


178 


LONG  JIM 


LONG  JIM 


Jim  met  me  at  the  station.  I  knew  it  was  Jim 
when  I  caught  sight  of  him  loping  along  the  plat 
form,  craning  his  neck,  his  head  on  one  side  as 
if  in  search  of  someone.  He  had  the  same  stoop 
in  his  shoulders;  the  same  long,  disjointed,  sham 
bling  body — six  feet  and  more  of  it — that  had 
earned  him  his  soubriquet. 

"Guess  you  be  him,"  he  said,  recognizing  me  as 
easily,  his  face  breaking  suddenly  into  a  broad 
smile  as  I  stepped  on  to  the  platform.  "Old  man 
'lowed  I'd  know  ye  right  away,  but  I  kind  o'  mis 
trusted  till  I  see  ye  stop  and  look  'raound  same's 
if  ye'd  lost  the  trail.  I'll  take  them  traps  and 
that  bag  if  ye  don't  mind,"  and  he  relieved  me  of 
my  sketch-kit  and  bag.  "Buck-board's  right  out 
here  behind  the  freight  shed,"  and  he  pointed 
across  the  track.  "Old  mare's  kinder  skeery  o* 
the  engine,  so  I  tied  her  a  piece  off." 

He  was  precisely  the  man  I  had  expected  to 
find — even  to  his  shaggy  gray  hair  matted  close 
181 


THE   UtfDEK  DOG 

tabout  his  ears,  wrinkled,  leathery  face,  and  long, 
scrawny  neck.  He  wore  the  same  rough,  cowhide 
boots  and  the  very  hat  I  had  seen  so  often  repro 
duced — such  a  picturesque  slouch  of  a  hat  with 
that  certain  cant  to  the  rim  which  betokens  long 
usage  and  not  a  little  comfort,  especially  on  bal 
sam  boughs  with  the  sky  for  a  covering,  and  only 
the  stars  to  light  one  to  bed. 

I  had  heard  all  these  several  details  and  ap 
pointments  described  ever  so  minutely  by  an  en 
thusiastic  brother  brush  who  had  spent  the  pre 
ceding  summer  with  old  man  Marvin — Jim's 
employer — but  he  had  forgotten  to  mention,  or 
had  failed  to  notice,  the  peculiar  softness  of  Jim's 
voice  and  his  timid,  shrinking  eyes — the  eyes  of 
a  dog  rather  than  those  of  a  man — not  cowardly 
eyes,  nor  sneaking  eyes — more  the  eyes  of  one  who 
had  suffered  constantly  from  sudden,  unexpected 
blows,  and  who  shrank  from  your  gaze  and  dodged 
it  as  does  a  hound  that  misunderstands  a  gesture. 

"Old  man's  been  'spectin'  ye  for  a  week,"  Jim 
rambled  on  as  he  led  the  way  to  the  shed,  hitching 
up  his  one  leather  suspender  that  kept  the  brown 
overalls  snug  up  under  his  armpits.  "P'raps  ye 
expected  him  to  meet  ye,"  he  continued,  "but  ye 
don't  know  him.  He  ain't  that  kind.  He  won't 
go  even  for  Ruby." 

"Who's  Ruby?"  The  brother  brush  had  not 
mentioned  him.  "Mr.  Marvin's  son?" 

"No,  she's  Mother  Marvin's  girl.  She's  away 
182 


LONG   JIM 

to  Plymouth  to  school.  Stand  here  a  minute  till 
I  back  up  the  buck-board." 

The  buck-board  is  the  only  vehicle  possible  over 
these  mountain-roads.  It  is  the  volante  of  the 
Franconia  range,  and  rides  over  everything  from 
a  bowlder  to  a  wind-slash.  This  particular  ex 
ample  differed  only  in  being  a  trifle  more  rickety 
and  mud-bespattered  than  any  I  had  seen;  and 
the  mare  had  evidently  been  foaled  to  draw  it — 
a  fur-coated,  moth-eaten,  wisp-tailed  beast,  tied  to 
the  shafts  with  clothes-lines  and  scraps  of  deerhide 
— a  quadruped  that  only  an  earthquake  could  have 
shaken  into  nervousness.  And  yet  Jim  backed  her 
into  position  as  carefully  as  if  she  had  felt  her 
harness  for  the  first  time,  handing  me  the  reins 
until  he  strapped  my  belongings  to  the  hind  axle, 
calling  "Whoa,  Bess!"  every  time  she  rested  a 
tired  muscle.  Then  he  lifted  one  long  leg  over 
the  dash-board  and  took  the  seat  beside  me. 

It  was  my  first  draught  of  a  long  holiday ;  my 
breathing-spell;  my  time  for  loose  neckties  and 
flannel  shirts  and  a  kit  slung  over  my  shoulder 
crammed  with  brushes  and  color-tubes;  my  time 
for  loafing  and  inviting  my  soul.  It  felt  inexpres 
sibly  delightful  to  be  once  more  out  in  the  open — 
out  under  the  wide  sweep  of  the  sky;  rid  of 
the  choke  of  narrow  streets;  exempt  of  bells, 
mails,  and  telegrams,  and  free  of  him  who  knocks, 
enters,  and  sits — and  sits — and  sits.  And  it  was 
the  Indian  summer  of  the  year;  when  the  air  is 
183 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

spicy  with  the  smoke  of  burning  leaves  and  the 
mountains  are  lost  in  the  haze ;  when  the  unshaven 
cornfields  are  dotted  with  yellow  pumpkins  and 
under  low-branched  trees  the  apples  lie  in  heaps; 
when  the  leaves  are  aflame  and  the  round  sun 
shines  pink  through  opalescent  clouds. 

"Ain't  it  a  hummer  of  a  day?"  Jim  exclaimed, 
suddenly,  looking  toward  the  valley  swimming  in 
a  silver  mist  below  us.  "By  Jiminy !  it  makes  a 
man  feel  like  livin',  don't  it  ?" 

I  turned  to  look  at  him.  He,  too,  seemed  to 
have  caught  the  infection.  His  shoulders  had 
straightened,  his  nostrils  were  dilated  like  a  deer's 
that  sniffs  some  distant  scent ;  his  face  was  aglow. 
I  began  to  wonder  if,  with  my  usual  luck,  I  had 
not  found  the  companion  I  always  looked  for  in 
my  outings — that  rare  other  fellow  of  the  right 
kind,  who  responds  to  your  slightest  wish  with  all 
the  enthusiasm  and  gusto  of  a  boy,  and  so  vaga- 
bondish  in  his  tendencies  that  he  is  delighted  to 
have  you  think  for  him  and  to  follow  your  lead. 

I  had  not  long  to  wait.  Before  we  had  gone  a 
mile  into  the  forest  Jim  jerked  the  mare  back 
upon  her  haunches  and,  pointing  to  a  great  hem 
lock  standing  sentinel  over  us,  cried  out  with  boy 
ish  enthusiasm: 

"Take  a  look  at  him  once.  Ain't  he  a  ring- 
tailed  roarer?  Seems  to  me  a  tree  big  as  him 
must  be  awful  proud  just  o'  bein'  a  tree.  Ain't 
nothin'  'raound  here  kin  see's  fur  as  he  kin,  any- 


LONG   JIM 

ways."  "My  luck  again/'  I  thought  to  myself. 
I  knew  I  could  not  be  mistaken  in  the  outward 
signs. 

"You  like  trees,  then?"  I  asked,  watching  the 
glow  on  his  face. 

"Like  'em!  Well,  wouldn't  you  if  ye'd  lived 
'mong  'em  long's  I  have  ?  Trees  don't  never  go- 
back  on  ye,  and  that's  what  ye  can't  say  o'  every 
thing."  The  analogy  was  obscure,  but  I  attrib 
uted  it  to  Jim's  slender  stock  of  phrases.  "I've 
knowed  that  hemlock  ever  since  I  come  here,  and 
he's  just  the  same  to  me  as  the  fust  day  I  see  him. 
Ain't  never  no  change  in  trees ;  once  they're  good 
to  ye  they're  allus  good  to  ye.  Birds  is  different 
— so  is  cattle — but  trees  and  dogs  ye  kin  tie  to. 
Don't  the  woods  smell  nice?  Do  ye  catch  on  to 
them  spruces  dead  ahead  of  us  ?  Maybe  ye  can't 
smell  'em  till  ye  git  yer  nose  cleared  out  o'  them 
city  nosegays,"  he  continued,  with  a  kindly  in 
terest  in  his  voice.  "But  ye  will  when  ye've  been 
here  a  spell.  Folks  that  live  in  cities  think  there 
ain't  nothin'  smells  sweet  but  flowers  and  cologne. 
They  ain't  never  slep'  on  balsam-boughs  nor  got 
a  whiff  o'  a  birchbark  fire,  nor  tramped  a  bed 
o'  ferns  at  night.  There's  a  cool,  fresh  smell  for 
ye!  I  tell  ye  there's  a  heap  o'  perfumes  'raound 
that  ye  can't  buy  at  a  flower-store  and  cork  up  in 
a  bottle.  Well,  I  guess — Git  up,  Bess!"  and  he 
flopped  the  reins  once  more  along  the  ridges  and 
hollows  of  the  mare's  back  while  he  encouraged 
185 


THE   UNDEK  DOG 

her  to  renewed  efforts  with  that  peculiar  clucking 
sound  heeded  only  by  certain  beasts  of  burden. 

At  the  end  of  the  tenth  mile  he  stopped  the 
mare  suddenly. 

"Hold  on,"  he  cried,  excitedly,  "there's  that 
scraggy-tail.  I  missed  him  when  I  come  down. 
See !  there  he  is  on  that  green  log.  I  was  feared 
he'd  passed  in  his  chips."  I  looked  and  saw  a 
huge  gray  squirrel  with  a  tail  like  a  rabbit. 
"That's  him.  Durn  mean  on  his  tail,  warn't  it? 
And  one  paw  gone,  too.  The  dog  catched  him  one 
day  last  year  and  left  him  tore  up  that  way.  I 
found  him  limping  along  when  I  was  a-sugaring 
here  in  the  spring  and  kinder  fixed  him  up,  and 
he's  sorter  on  the  lookout  for  me  when  I  come 
along.  He's  got  a  hole  'round  here  somewheres." 

Jim  sprang  out  of  the  buck-board.  Fumbling 
under  the  seat  he  brought  out  a  bag  of  nuts.  The 
squirrel  took  them  from  his  hand,  stuffing  his 
mouth  full,  five  at  a  time,  limping  away  to  hide 
them,  and  back  again  for  more  until  the  bag  was 
empty,  Jim,  contented  and  unhurried,  squatting 
on  the  ground,  his  long  knees  bent  under  him. 
The  way  in  which  he  did  this  gave  me  infinite 
delight.  No  vagabond  I  had  ever  known  ignored 
time  and  duty  more  complacently. 

We  drove  on  in  silence,  Jim  taking  in  every 
thing  we  passed.  This  shambling,  slenderly  edu 
cated,  and  clay-soiled  man  was  fast  looming  up  as 
a  find  of  incalculable  value — the  most  valuable  of 
186 


LO?sTG   JIM 

my  experience.  The  most  important  thing,  how 
ever,  was  still  to  be  settled  if  a  perfect  harmony  of 
interests  was  to  be  established  between  us — would 
lie  like  me  ? 

Marvin's  cabin,  in  which  I  was  to  spend  my 
holiday,  lay  on  a  clearing  half  a  mile  or  more  out 
side  the  woods  and  at  the  foot  of  a  hill  that  helped 
prop  up  the  Knob.  The  stage  road  ran  to  the  left. 
The  house  was  a  small  two-story  affair  built  of 
logs  and  clapboards,  and  was  joined  to  the  out 
lying  stable  by  a  covered  passage  which  was  lined 
with  winter  firewood.  Marvin,  who  met  us  at  the 
pasture-gate,  carried  a  lantern,  the  glow  of  the 
twilight  having  faded  from  the  mountain-tops. 
He  was  a  small,  thick-set  man,  smooth-shaven  as 
far  as  the  under  side  of  his  chin  and  jaws,  with  a 
whisk-broom  beard  spread  over  his  shirt-front  and 
half  of  his  waistcoat.  His  forehead  was  low,  and 
his  eyes  set  close  together — sure  sign  of  a  close- 
fisted  nature. 

To  my  great  surprise  his  first  words,  after  a 
limp  handshake  and  a  perfunctory  "pleased  to  see 
you,"  were  devoted  to  an  outbreak  on  Jim  for 
having  been  so  long  on  the  road.  "Been  waitin' 
here  an  hour,"  he  said.  "What  in  tarnation  kepr 
ye,  anyway  ?  Them  cows  ain't  milked  yit !" 

"Don't  worry.    I  won't  go  back  on  them  cows," 
replied  Jim,  quietly,  as  he  drove  through  the  gate 
way,  following  Marvin,  who  walked  ahead  swing 
ing  the  lantern  to  show  the  mare  the  road. 
187 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

Mrs.  Marvin's  manner  was  as  abrupt  as  that  of 
her  husband. 

"Well,  well!"  she  said,  as  I  stepped  upon  the 
porch,  "guess  you  must  be  beat  out  comin'  so  fur. 
Come  in  and  set  by  the  stove,"  and  she  resumed 
her  work  in  the  pantry  without  another  word. 

I  was  not  offended  at  her  curtness.  These  deni 
zens  of  the  forest  pass  too  many  hours  alone  and 
speak  too  seldom  to  understand  the  value  of  polite 
ness  for  politeness'  sake.  The  wife,  moreover, 
redeemed  herself  the  next  morning  when  I  found 
her  on  the  back  porch  feeding  the  birds. 

"Snow  ain't  fur  off,"  she  remarked,  in  explana 
tion,  as  she  scattered  the  crumbs  about,  "and  I 
want  'em  to  larn  early  where  they  kin  find  some 
thing  to  eat.  Ruby'd  never  forgive  me  if  I  didn't 
feed  the  birds.  She  loves  'em  'bout  as  much  as 
Jim  does."  * 

Neither  she  nor  her  husband  became  any  more 
cordial  as  they  knew  me  better.  To  them  I  was 
only  the  boarder  whose  weekly  stipend  helped  to 
decrease  the  farm  debt,  and  who  had  to  be  fed 
three  times  a  day  and  given  a  bed  at  night.  It 
was  Jim  who  made  me  feel  at  home.  He  was  the 
fellow  I  had  longed  for ;  the  round  peg  of  a  chance 
acquaintance  that  exactly  fitted  into  the  round 
hole  of  my  holiday  life,  and  he  fulfilled  my  every 
expectation.  He  would  fish  or  hunt  or  carry  a 
sketch-trap  or  wash  brushes,  or  loaf,  or  go  to  sleep 
beside  me — or  get  up  at  daylight — whatever  the 
188 


one  half  of  me  wanted  to  do,  Jim,  the  other  half, 
agreed  to  with  instant  cheerfulness. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  this  constant  companion 
ship,  I  never  crossed  a  certain  line  of  reserve 
which  he  had  set  up  between  us.  He  would 
ramble  on  by  the  hour  about  the  things  around 
us;  about  the  trees,  the  birds,  and  squirrels;  of 
the  way  the  muskrats  lived  by  the  sawmill  dam, 
and  their  cleverness  in  avoiding  his  traps;  about 
the  deer  that  "yarded"  back  of  Taft's  Knob  last 
winter,  and  their  leanness  in  the  spring.  Some 
times  he  would  speak  of  Mother  Marvin,  saying 
she  "thought  a  heap  of  Ruby,  and  ought  to,"  and 
now  and  then  he  would  speak  of  Ruby  with  a  cer 
tain  tender  tone  in  his  voice,  telling  me  of  the 
prizes  she  had  won  at  school,  and  how  nobody 
could  touch  her  in  "'rithmetic  and  readin'."  But, 
to  my  surprise,  he  never  discussed  any  of  his  pri 
vate  affairs  with  me.  I  say  "stTrprise,"  for  until 
I  met  Jim  I  had  found  that  men  of  his  class 
talked  of  little  else,  especially  when  over  camp- 
fires  smouldering  far  into  the  night. 

This  reticence  also  extended  to  Marvin's  affairs. 
The  relations  between  them,  I  saw,  were  greatly 
strained,  although  Jim  always  discharged  his 
duties  conscientiously,  never  failing  to  render  a 
strict  account  of  the  time  he  spent  with  me,  which 
Marvin  always  itemized  in  the  weekly  bill.  I 
used  often  to  wonder  if  he  were  not  under  some 
obligation  to  his  employer  which  he  could  not  re- 
189 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

quite;  it  might  be  for  food  and  shelter  in  his 
earlier  days,  or  perhaps  that  he  was  weighted  by 
a  money  debt  he  was  unable  to  pay. 

One  morning,  after  a  particularly  ugly  out 
break  in  which  Jim  had  been  denounced  for  some 
supposed  neglect  of  his  duties,  I  asked  him,  then 
lying  beside  me,  his  head  cupped  upon  his  saucer 
of  a  slouch  hat,  why  he  stayed  on  with  a  man  like 
Marvin,  so  different  from  himself  in  every  way. 
I  had  often  wondered  why  Jim  stood  it,  and 
wished  that  he  had  the  spirit  to  try  his  fortunes 
elsewhere.  In  my  sympathy  for  him  I  had  even 
gone  so  far  as  to  hint  once  or  twice  at  my  finding 
him  other  employment.  Indeed,  I  must  confess 
that  the  only  cloud  between  us  dimming  my 
confidence  in  him  was  this  very  lack  of  inde 
pendence. 

"Well,  I  got  to  git  along  with  him  for  a  spell 
yit,"  Jim  answered,  slowly,  his  eyes  turned  up  to 
the  sky.  "He  is  ornery,  and  no  mistake,  and  I 
git  mad  at  him  sometimes;  but  then  ag'in  I  feel 
kinder  sorry  for  him  somehow.  He's  a  queer 
kind,  ain't  he,  to  be  livin'  up  here  all  his  life  with 
trees  and  mountains  all  'round  him,  all  doin'  their 
best  to  please  him — and  I  don't  know  nothin' 
friendlier  nor  honester — and  yet  him  bein'  what 
he  is?  I'd  'a'  thought  they'd  thawed  him  out 
'fore  this.  And  he's  so  dog-goned  close,  too,  if  I 
must  say  it.  Why,  if  it  warn't  for  Mother  Mar 
vin,  some  o'  us  'raound  here" — and  he  stopped  and 
190 


LO:NTG  JIM 

lowered  his  voice — "would  be  out  in  the  cold; 
some  ye  wouldn't  suspect,  too." 

This  apparently  studied  reticence  only  incited 
my  curiosity  to  learn  something  more  of  the  man 
for  whom  I  had  begun  to  have  a  real  affection.  I 
wanted  particularly  to  know  something  of  his  life 
before  he  came  to  Marvin's ! — twelve  years  now. 
I  could  not,  of  course,  ask  Marvin  or  his  wife  for 
any  details — my  intimacy  with  Jim  forbade  such 
an  invasion  of  his  privacy — and  I  met  no  one  else 
in  the  forest.  I  saw  plainly  that  he  was  not  a 
mountaineer  by  birth.  'Not  only  did  his  dialect 
differ  from  those  about  him,  but  his  habits  were 
not  those  of  a  woodsman.  For  instance,  he  would 
always  carry  his  matches  loose  in  his  pocket,  in 
stead  of  in  a  dry  box ;  then,  again,  he  would  wear 
his  trousers  rolled  up  like  a  fireman's,  as  if  to 
keep  out  the  wet,  instead  of  tucking  them  into  his 
boots  to  tramp  the  woods  the  better.  Now  and 
then,  too,  he  would  let  fall  some  word  or  expression 
which  would  betray  greater  familiarity  with  the 
ins  and  outs  of  the  city  than  with  the  intricacies 
of  the  forest. 

"It  was  fixed  up  in  a  glass  case  like  one  Abe 
Condit  used  to  have  in  his  place  in  the  Bowery," 
he  said  once  in  describing  a  prize  trout  some  city 
fisherman  had  stuffed  and  framed.  But  when  I 
asked  him,  with  some  surprise,  if  he  knew  the 
Bowery,  he  looked  at  me  quickly,  with  the  slight 
est  trace  of  offended  dignity  in  his  eyes,  as  if  I 
191 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

had  meant  to  overstep  the  line  between  us,  and 
answered  quickly : 

"I  knowed  Abe  Condit,"  and  immediately 
changed  the  conversation. 

And  yet  I  must  admit  that  there  was  nothing  in 
the  way  he  answered  this  and  all  my  other  ques 
tions  that  weakened  my  confidence  in  his  sincer 
ity.  If  there  were  any  blackened  pages  in  his  past 
record  that  he  did  not  want  to  lay  bare  even  to  me, 
they  were  discolored,  I  felt  sure,  more  by  priva 
tions  and  suffering  than  by  any  stains  he  was 
ashamed  of. 

II 

One  morning  at  daybreak  I  was  awakened  by 
Jim  swinging  back  my  door.  He  had  on  his 
heavy  overcoat  and  carried  a  lantern.  His  slouch 
hat  was  flattened  on  the  back  of  his  head ;  the  rim 
flared  out,  framing  his  face,  which  was  wreathed 
in  smiles.  He  seemed  to  be  under  some  peculiar 
excitement,  for  his  breath  came  thick  and  fast. 

"Sorry  to  wake  ye,  but  I'm  goin'  to  Plymouth," 
and  he  lowered  his  head  and  stepped  inside  my 
room.  "Ruby's  comin'.  Feller  brought  me  a  let 
ter  she'd  sent  on  by  the  stage.  The  driver  left  it 
at  the  sawmill.  I'd  'a'  told  ye  las'  night,  but  ye'd 
turned  in." 

"When  will  you  be  back?"  I  called  out  from 
between  the  bedclothes.  We  had  planned  a  trip 
192 


LO}sTG   JIM 

to  the  Knob  the  next  day,  and  were  to  camp  out 
for  the  night.  He  evidently  saw  my  disappoint 
ment  in  my  face,  for  he  answered  quickly,  as  he 
bent  over  me : 

"Oh,  to-night,  sure;  and  maybe  Ruby'll  go 
along.  There  ain't  nothin'  ye  kin  teach  her  'bout 
campin',  and  she'll  go  anywheres  I'll  take  her — 
leastways,  she  allus  has."  This  last  was  said  with 
some  hesitation,  as  if  he  had  suddenly  thought 
that  my  presence  might  make  some  difference  to 
her.  "Leave  yer  brushes  where  I  kin  git  'em," 
he  continued,  anxious  to  make  up  for  my  disap 
pointment.  "I'll  wash  'em  when  I  git  back,"  and 
he  clattered  down  the  steep  stairs  and  slammed  the 
door  behind  him. 

I  jumped  from  my  bed,  threw  up  the  narrow, 
unpainted  sash  and  watched  his  tall,  awkward 
figure  swinging  the  lantern  as  he  hurried  away 
toward  the  shed  where  the  gray  mare  lived  in 
solitude.  Then  I  crept  back  to  bed  again  to  plan 
my  day  anew. 

When  I  joined  Marvin  at  breakfast  I  found 
him  in  one  of  his  ugliest  moods,  with  all  his 
bristles  out;  not  turned  toward  me,  nor  even 
toward  his  wife,  but  toward  the  world  in  general. 
Strange  to  say,  he  made  no  allusion  to  his  daugh 
ter's  return  nor  to  Jim's  absence. 

Suddenly  his  wife  blurted  out,  as  if  she  could 
restrain  her  joy  no  longer: 

"You  ain't  never  seen  Ruby.  She's  comin'  to- 
193 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

night.  Jim's  gone  for  her.  The  head  teacher's 
sick  and  some  o'  the  girls  has  got  a  holiday." 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  quietly;  "Jim  told  me." 

"Oh,  he  did !"  And  she  put  down  her  cup  and 
leaned  across  the  table.  "Well,  I'm  awful  glad 
she's  comin',  just  so  ye  kin  see  her.  Ye  won't 
never  forgit  her  when  ye  do.  She's  got  six  months 
more,  then  she's  comin'  home  for  a  spell  until  she 
goes  teachin',"  and  a  look  of  exultant  pride  and 
joy  of  which  I  had  never  believed  her  capable 
came  into  her  eyes. 

Marvin  turned  his  head  and  in  a  half-angry 
way  said: 

"It's  'bout  time.  Little  good  ye've  had  o'  her 
for  the  last  four  years  with  yer  fool  notions  'bout 
eddication."  And  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went  out. 

"How  old  is  your  daughter  ?"  I  asked,  more  to 
soften  the  effect  of  Marvin's  brutal  remark  than 
anything  else. 

"She's  seventeen,  I  guess,  but  she's  big  for  her 
age." 

The  announcement  came  as  a  surprise.  I  had 
supposed  from  the  way  Jim  had  always  spoken  of 
her  that  she  was  a  child  of  twelve.  The  possibili 
ties  of  her  camping  out  became  all  the  more  re 
mote. 

"And  has  she  been  away  from  you  long  this 
time  ?" 

"  'Bout  four  months.  I  didn't  'spect  her  to 
come  till  Christmas,  till  she  wrote  Jim  to  come  fof 
194 


LO^TG   JIM 

her.    He  allus  fetches  her.    They'll  be  'long  'bout 
dark." 

I  instantly  determined  to  extend  the  heartiest 
of  welcomes  to  this  little  daughter,  not  alone  be 
cause  of  the  mother  and  Jim,  but  because  the 
home-coming  of  a  young  girl  had  always  appealed 
to  me  as  one  of  the  most  satisfying  of  all  family 
events.  My  memory  instinctively  went  back  to 
the  return  of  my  own  little  bird,  and  of  the  many 
marvellous  preparations  begun  weeks  before  in 
honor  of  the  event.  I  saw  again  in  my  mind  the 
wondrous  curtains,  stiff  and  starched,  hung  at  the 
windows  and  about  the  high  posts  of  the  quaint 
bedstead  that  had  sheltered  her  from  childhood; 
I  remembered  the  special  bakings  and  brewings 
and  the  innumerable  bundles,  big  and  little,  that 
were  tucked  away  under  secretive  sofas  and  the 
thousand  other  surprises  that  hung  upon  her  com 
ing.  This  little  wood-pigeon  should  have  my  best 
attention,  however  simple  and  plain  might  be  her 
plumage. 

Moreover,  I  was  more  than  curious  to  see  what 
particular  kind  of  a  fledgling  could  be  born  to 
these  two  parent  birds — one  so  hard  and  unsympa 
thetic  and  the  other  so  kind  and  simple.  Jim,  I 
remembered,  had  always  spoken  enthusiastically 
of  Ruby,  but  then  Jim  always  spilled  over  the 
edges  whenever  he  spoke  of  the  things  he  loved, 
whether  they  were  dogs,  trees,  flowers,  or  brilliant 
young  maidens. 

195 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

At  nine  o'clock  that  night  my  ear  caught  the 
sound  of  wheels ;  then  came  Jim's  "Whoa !  Bess," 
and  the  mother  threw  wide  the  door  and  caught 
her  daughter  in  her  arms. 

"Oh,  mother!"  the  girl  cried,  "wasn't  it  good 
I  could  come  ?"  and  she  kissed  her  again.  Then 
she  turned  to  me — I  had  followed  out  in  the  star 
light — "Uncle  Jim  sent  me  word  you  were  here, 
and  I  was  so  glad.  I've  always  wanted  to  see 
somebody  paint,  and  Uncle  Jim  says  he's  sure  you 
will  let  me  go  sketching  with  you.  I  wasn't  com 
ing  home  with  the  other  girls  until  I  got  his  letter 
and  knew  that  you  were  here." 

She  said  this  frankly  and  simply,  without  the 
slightest  embarrassment,  and  without  a  trace  of 
any  dialect  in  her  speech.  Jim  evidently  had  not 
exaggerated  her  attainments.  She  had,  too,  un 
consciously  to  herself,  solved  one  of  the  mysteries 
that  surrounded  me.  If  Jim  was  her  uncle  it 
must  be  on  her  mother's  side;  it  certainly  could 
not  be  on  Marvin's.  "> 

"And  I'm  glad,  too,"  I  replied.  "Of  course  you 
shall  go,  and  Jim  tells  me  also  that  you  are  as 
good  a  woodsman  as  he  is.  And  so  Jim's  your 
uncle,  is  he  ?  He  never  told  me  that." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  answered  quickly,  with  a  little 
deprecatory  air.  "He  isn't  my  real  uncle.  He's 
just  Jim,  but  I've  always  called  him  Uncle  Jim 
ever  since  I  was  a  little  girl.  And  I  love  him 
dearly;  don't  I,  Uncle  Jim?"  and  she  turned 
196 


LONG   JIM 

toward  him  as  he  entered  the  door  carrying  her 
bundle,  followed  by  her  father  with  the  kerosene 
lamp,  Marvin  having  brought  it  out  to  help  Jim 
unload  the  buck-board. 

"That's  what  ye  allus  says,  baby-girl,"  an 
swered  Jim,  "so  I  got  to  believe  it.  And  if  I 
didn't,  there  wouldn't  be  no  use  o'  livin' — not  a 
mite."  There  was  a  vibrating  tenderness  in  the 
man's  voice,  and  an  indescribable  pathos  in  ita 
tone,  as  he  spoke,  that  caused  me  instinctively  to 
turn  my  head  and  look  into  his  face. 

The  light  shone  full  upon  it — so  full  and  direct 
that  there  were  no  shadows  anywhere.  Whether 
it  was  because  of  the  lamp's  direct  rays  or  because 
of  his  long  ride  in  the  crisp  November  air,  I  could 
not  decide,  but  certain  it  was  that  Jim's  face  was 
without  a  wrinkle,  and  that  he  looked  twenty 
years  younger.  Even  the  hard,  drawn  lines  about 
his  mouth  and  nose  had  disappeared. 

With  ihe  light  of  the  lamp  came  another  reve 
lation.  While  the  girl's  cheap  woollen  dress  and 
jacket,  of  a  pattern  sold  in  the  country  stores, 
showed  her  to  be  the  product  of  Marvin's  home 
and  the  recipient  of  his  scanty  bounty,  her  trim, 
well-rounded  figure,  soft,  glossy  hair — now  that 
her  hat  was  off — and  small  hands  and  feet,  classed 
her  as  one  of  far  gentler  birth.  There  was,  too, 
as  she  passed  in  and  out  of  the  room  helping  her 
mother  with  the  supper-table,  a  certain  grace  and 
dignity,  especially  in  the  way  in  which  she  bent 
197 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

her  head  on  one  side  to  listen,  a  gesture  often  seen 
in  a  drawing-room,  but  never,  in  my  experience, 
in  a  cabin.  What  astonished  me  most,  however, 
were  her  hands — her  exquisitely  modelled  hands, 
still  ruddy  from  the  fresh  night-air,  but  so  won 
derfully  curved  and  dimpled.  And  then,  too,  the 
perfect  graciousness  and  simplicity  of  her  manner 
and  its  absolute  freedom  from  coquetry  or  self- 
consciousness.  Her  mother  was  right — I  would 
not  soon  forget  her.  And  yet,  by  what  freak  of 
Nature,  I  found  myself  continually  repeating,  had 
this  flower  been  made  to  bloom  on  this  soil? 
Through  what  ancestor's  veins  had  this  blood 
trickled,  and  through  what  channels  had  it  reached 
these  humble  occupants  of  a  forest  home  ? 

But  if  her  mother  was  the  happier  for  her  com 
ing,  Jim,  radiant  with  joy,  seemed  to  walk  on  air. 
His  head  was  up,  his  arms  were  swinging  free, 
and  there  was  a  lightness  and  spring  in  his  move 
ments  that  made  me  forget  the  grotesqueness  of 
his  gait.  Nor,  as  the  days  went  by,  did  this  buoy 
ant  happiness  ever  fail  him.  He  and  Ruby  were 
inseparable  from  the  time  she  opened  the  rude 
door  of  her  bedroom  in  the  morning  until  she  bade 
us  all  good-night  and  carried  with  her  all  the  light 
and  charm  and  joyousness  of  the  day.  The  camp 
ing-out,  I  may  as  well  state,  had  been  given  up 
as  soon  as  I  had  mentioned  it,  she  saying  to  me 
with  a  little  start,  as  if  frightened  at  the  propo 
sition,  that  she  thought  she'd  better  stay  home  and 
198 


LONG   JIM 

help  her  mother.  Then,  seeing  Jim's  face  fall, 
she  added,  "But  we  can  be  off  all  day,  can't 
we?" 

And  Jim  answered  that  it  was  all  right,  just 
as  Ruby  said — that  we  would  go  fishing  instead, 
and  that  he  had  spotted  an  old  trout  that  lived  in 
a  hole  down  the  East  Branch  that  he'd  been  saving 
for  her,  and  that  he  had  tied  the  day  before  the 
"very  fly  that  will  fix  him" — all  of  which  was 
true,  for  Ruby  landed  him  the  next  day  with  all 
the  skill  of  a  professional,  besides  a  dozen  smaller 
ones  whose  haunts  Jim  knew. 

And  so  the  weeks  flew  by,  Ruby  tramping  the 
forest  daily  between  us  or  sitting  beside  me  as  I 
painted,  noting  every  stroke  of  my  brush  and  ask 
ing  me  innumerable  questions  as  to  the  choice  of 
colors  and  the  mixing  of  the  tints.  At  other  times 
she  would  ply  me  with  questions,  making  me  tell 
her  of  the  things  I  had  seen  abroad  and  of  the 
cities  and  peoples  she  had  read  of;  or  she  would 
talk  of  the  books  she  had  studied,  and  of  others 
she  wanted  to  read.  Jim  would  listen  eagerly, 
with  a  certain  pride  in  his  eyes  that  she  knew  so 
much  and  could  talk  so  well,  and  when  we  were 
alone  he  would  comment  on  it: 

"Nearly  catched  ye,  didn't  she  ?  I  see  once  or 
twice  ye  were  stumped  clean  out  o'  yer  boots  on 
them  questions  she  fired.  How  her  little  head 
holds  it  all  is  what  bothers  me.  But  I  allus 
knowed  how  it  would  be;  I  told  the  old  man  so 
199 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

ten  year  ago.  Ain't  one  o'  'em  'raound  here  kin 
touch  her." 

At  night,  under  the  kerosene  lamp  in  the  cabin, 
she  would  ask  me  to  read  aloud,  she  looking  up 
into  my  face  and  drinking  in  every  word,  the 
others  listening,  Jim  watching  every  expression 
that  crossed  her  face. 

Dear  old  Jim!  I  still  see  your  tender,  shrink 
ing  eyes  peering  at  her  from  under  your 
bushy  eyebrows  and  still  hear  the  low  ripple  of 
your  merry  laugh  over  her  volleys  of  questions. 
You  were  so  proud  of  her  and  so  happy  in  those 
days!  So  tender  in  touch,  so  gentle  of  voice,  so 
constant  in  care ! 

One  morning  I  had  some  letters  to  write,  and 
Ruby  and  Jim  took  the  rods  and  went  up  the  brook 
without  me.  They  both  begged  me  to  go,  Ruby 
being  particularly  urgent,  I  thought,  but  I  had 
already  delayed  the  mail  too  long  and  so  refused 
point-blank — too  abruptly,  perhaps,  as  I  thought 
afterward,  when  I  remembered  the  keen  look  of 
disappointment  in  her  face.  When  she  re-entered 
the  cabin  alone  an  hour  later  she  passed  me  hur 
riedly,  and  calling  out  to  her  father  that  Jim  was 
wanted  at  the  sawmill  to  fix  the  wheel  and  would 
not  be  back  until  morning,  shut  herself  into  her 
room  before  I  could  offer  myself  in  Jim's  place — 
which  I  would  gladly  have  done,  now  that  her 
morning's  pleasure  had  been  spoiled. 

When  she  joined  us  at  supper — she  had  kept 
200 


LONG   JIM 

her  room  all  day — I  saw  that  her  eyes  were  red, 
as  if  she  had  been  crying.  I  knew  then  that  I  had 
offended  her. 

"Euby,  I  really  couldn't  go,"  I  said.  "You 
don't  feel  cross  about  it,  do  you  ?" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  answered,  with  some  earnestness. 
"And  I  knew  you  were  busy." 

"And  about  Jim — what's  the  matter  with  the 
wheel  ?"  I  asked,  greatly  relieved  at  the  discovery 
that  whatever  troubled  her,  my  staying  at  home 
had  not  caused  it. 

"One  of  the  buckets  is  broken — Uncle  Jim  al 
ways  fixes  it,"  and  she  turned  her  head  away  to 
hide  her  tears. 

"Is  Jim  a  carpenter,  too?"  I  asked,  with  a 
smile. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  replied.  "Didn't  you  know 
that?  They  often  send  for  him  to  fix  the  mill. 
There's  no  one  else  about  here  who  can."  And 
she  changed  the  conversation  and  began  talking  of 
the  beauty  of  that  part  of  the  brook  where  they 
had  been  to  fish,  and  of  the  rich  brown  tint  of 
the  water  in  the  pools,  and  how  lovely  the  red 
sumachs  were  reflected  in  their  depths. 

The  next  morning,  and  without  any  previous 
warning,  Ruby  appeared  in  her  cloth  dress  and 
jacket  and  announced  her  intention  of  taking  the 
stage  back  to  Plymouth,  adding  that  as  Jim  had 
not  returned,  Marvin  must  drive  her  over  to  the 
cross-roads.  I  offered  my  services,  but  she  de- 
201 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

dined  them  graciously  but  firmly,  bidding  me 
good-by  and  saying  with  one  of  her  earnest  looks, 
as  she  held  my  hand  in  hers,  that  she  should  never 
forget  my  kindness  to  Jim,  and  that  she  would 
always  remember  me  for  what  I  had  done  for  him, 
and  then  she  added  with  peculiar  tenderness: 

"And  dear  TJncle  Jim  won't  forget  you,  either." 

And  so  she  had  gone,  and  with  her  had  faded 
all  the  light  and  joyousness  of  the  place. 

When  Jim  returned  the  next  day  I  was  at  work 
in  the  pasture  painting  a  group  of  white  birches. 
I  hallooed  to  him  as  he  shambled  along  within  a 
hundred  yards  of  me,  swinging  his  arms,  but  he 
did  not  answer  except  to  turn  his  head. 

That  night  at  table  he  replied  to  my  questions 
in  monosyllables,  explaining  his  not  stopping 
when  I  had  called  in  the  morning  by  saying  that 
lie  didn't  want  to  "  'sturb  me,"  and  when  I 
laughed  and  told  him — using  his  own  words — that 
Ruby  "wouldn't  pass  a  fellow  and  give  him  the 
•dead,  cold  shake,"  he  pushed  back  his  chair  with 
a  sudden  impatient  gesture,  said  he  had  forgotten 
something,  and  left  the  table  without  a  word  or 
look  in  reply. 

I  knew  then  that  I  had  hurt  him  in  some  way. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Jim,  Mr.  Marvin? 
He  seems  put  out  about  something.  Did  he  say 
anything  to  you?"  I  asked,  astonished  at  Jim's 
behavior,  and  anxious  for  some  clew  by  which  to 
solve  its  mystery. 

202 


LONG   JIM 

"Got  one  o'  his  spells  on.  Gits  that  way  some 
times,  and  when  he  does  ye  can't  git  no  good  out 
o'  him.  I  want  them  turnips  dug,  and  he's  got  to 
do  it  or  git  out.  I  ain't  hired  him  to  loaf  'round 
all  day  with  Ruby  and  to  sulk  when  she's  gone. 
I'm  a-payin'  him  wages  right  along,  ain't  I  ?"  he 
added  with  some  fierceness  as  he  stopped  at  the 
door.  "What  he  gits  for  fixin'  the  mill  ain't 
nothin'  to  me — I  don't  git  a  cent  on  it." 

Ill 

When  the  morning  came  and  Jim  had  not  re 
turned  I  started  for  the  mill.  I  found  him  alone, 
sitting  idly  on  a  bench  near  the  water-wheel.  I 
had  heard  the  hum  of  the  saw  before  I  reached  the 
dam  and  knew  that  he  had  finished  his  work. 

"Jim,"  I  said,  walking  up  to  him  and  extend 
ing  my  hand,  "if  I  have  done  anything  to  hurt 
your  feelings,  I'm  sorry.  If  I  had  known  you 
would  have  been  put  out  by  my  not  going  with 
Ruby  I  would  have  let  the  mail  wait." 

He  took  my  hand  mechanically,  but  he  did  not 
raise  his  eyes.  The  old  look  had  returned  to  his 
face,  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  some  sudden  blow. 
"I  did  all  I  could  to  make  Ruby's  visit  a  happy 
one — don't  you  know  I  did  ?"  I  continued. 

He  leaned  forward,  his  elbows  resting  on  his 
knees,  his  eyes  still  on  the  ground.     There  was 
something  infinitely  pathetic  in  the  attitude. 
203 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

"Ye  ain't  done  nothin'  to  me,"  he  answered, 
slowly,  "and  ye  ain't  done  nothin'  to  Ruby.  I 
cottoned  to  ye  fust  time  I  see  ye,  and  so  did  Ruby, 
and  we  still  do.  It  ain't  that." 

"Well,  what  is  it,  then?  Why  have  you  kept 
away  from  me?" 

He  arose  wearily  until  his  whole  length  was 
erect,  hooked  his  long  arms  behind  his  back,  and 
began  walking  up  and  down  the  platform.  He 
was  no  longer  my  comrade  of  the  woods.  The 
spring  and  buoyancy  of  his  step  had  gone  out  of 
him.  He  seemed  shrivelled  and  bent,  as  if  some 
sudden  weakness  had  overcome  him.  His  face 
was  white  and  drawn,  and  the  eyelids  drooped,  as 
if  he  had  not  slept. 

At  the  second  turn  he  stopped,  gazed  abstract 
edly  at  the  boards  under  his  feet,  as  a  man  some 
times  does  when  his  mind  is  on  other  things. 
Mechanically  he  stooped  to  pick  up  a  small  iron 
nut  that  had  slipped  from  one  of  the  bolts  used 
in  repairing  the  wheel,  and  in  the  same  abstracted 
way,  still  ignoring  me,  raised  it  to  his  eye,  looked 
through  the  hole  for  a  moment,  and  then  tossed  it 
into  the  dam.  The  splash  of  the  iron  striking  the 
water  frightened  a  bird,  which  arose  in  the  air, 
sang  a  clear,  sweet  note,  and  disappeared  in  the 
bushes  on  the  opposite  bank.  Jim  started,  turned 
his  head  quickly,  following  the  flight  of  the  bird, 
and  sank  slowly  back  upon  the  bench,  his  face  in 
his  hands. 

204 


LOXG   JIM 

"There  it  is  again,"  he  cried  out.  "Every  way 
I  turn  it's  the  same  thing.  I  can't  even  chuck 
nothin'  overboard  but  I  hear  it." 

"Hear  what  ?"  The  keen  anguish  expressed  in 
his  voice  had  alarmed  me. 

"That  song-sparrow — did  ye  hear  it  ?  I  tell  ye 
this  thing5!!  drive  me  crazy.  I  tell  ye  I  can't 
stand  it — I  can't  stand  it."  And  he  turned  his 
head  and  covered  his  face  with  his  sleeve. 

The  outburst  and  gesture  only  intensified  my 
anxiety.  Was  Jim's  mind  giving  away  ?  I  arose 
from  my  seat  and  bent  over  him,  my  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"Why,  that's  only  a  bird,  Jim — I  saw  it — it's 
gone  into  the  bushes." 

"Yes,  I  know  it ;  I  seen  it ;  that's  what  hurts  me ; 
that's  what's  allus  goin'  to  hurt  me.  And  'tain't 
only  goin'  to  be  the  birds.  It's  goin'  to  be  the 
trees  and  the  gray-backs  and  the  trout  we  catched, 
and  everywhere  I  look  and  every  place  I  go  to  it's 
goin'  to  be  the  same  thing.  And  it  ain't  never 
goin'  to  be  no  better — never — never — long  as  I 
live.  She  said  so.  Them  was  her  very  words. 
I  ain't  never  goin'  to  forgit  'em."  And  he  leaned 
his  head  in  a  baffled,  tired  way  against  the  plank 
ing  of  the  mill. 

"Who  said  so,  Jim  ?"  I  asked. 

Jim  raised  his  head,  looked  me  straight  in  the 
face  and,  with  the  tears  starting  in  his  eyes,  an 
swered  in  a  low  voice : 

205 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

"Ruby.  She  loves  'em — loves  every  one  o'  'em. 
Oh,  what's  goin'  to  become  o'  me  now,  any 
how?" 

"Well,  but  I  don't — "  The  revelation  came  to 
me  before  I  could  complete  the  sentence.  Jim's 
face  had  told  the  story  of  his  heart ! 

"Jim,"  I  said,  laying  my  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
"do  you  love  Ruby  ?" 

"Sit  down  here,"  he  said,  in  a  hopeless,  de 
spondent  voice,  "and  mebbe  I'll  git  grit  enough  to 
tell  ye.  I  ain't  never  told  none  o'  the  folks  that 
comes  up  here  o'  how  things  was,  but  I'm  goin'  to 
tell  you.  And  I'm  goin'  to  tell  it  to  ye  plumb 
from  the  beginnin',  too."  And  a  sigh  like  the 
moan  of  one  in  pain  escaped  him 

"Twelve  years  ago  I  come  here  from  New  York. 
I'd  been  cleaned  out  o'  everything  I  had  by  a  man 
I  trusted,  and  I  was  flat  broke.  I  didn't  care 
where  I  went,  so's  I  got  away  from  the  city  and 
from  people.  I  wanted  to  git  somewheres  out  into 
the  country,  and  so  I  got  aboard  the  train  and  kep' 
on  till  I'd  struck  Plymouth.  There  my  money 
gin  out  and  I  started  up  the  road  into  the  moun 
tains.  I  thought  I'd  hire  out  to  some  choppers 
for  the  winter.  When  night  come  I  see  a  light 
and  knocked  at  the  door  and  Jed  opened  it.  He 
warn't  goin'  to  keep  me,  but  he  was  a-buildin'  the 
shed  where  the  old  mare  is  now,  and  he  found  out  I 
was  handy  with  the  tools  and  didn't  want  no  wages, 
only  my  board,  so  he  let  me  stay.  The  next  spring 
206 


LONG   JIM 

lie  hired  me  regular  and  give  me  wages  every 
month.  I  kep'  along,  choppin'  in  the  winter  and 
helpin'  'round  the  place,  and  in  summer  goin'  out 
with  the  parties  that  come  up  from  the  city,  helpin' 
'em  fish  and  hunt.  I  liked  that,  for  I  loved  the- 
woods  ever  since  I  was  a  boy,  when  I  used  to  go 
off  by  myself  and  stay  days  and  nights  with  noth- 
in'  but  a  tin  can  o'  grub  and  a  blanket.  That's 
why  I  come  here  when  I  went  broke. 

"One  summer  there  come  a  feller  from  Boston 
to  fish.  He  brought  his  wife  along,  and  I  used  to 
go  out  with  both  o'  'em.  The  man's  wife  was  put- 
tin'  up  for  some  o'  them  children's  homes,  and  she 
used  to  talk  to  Marm  Marvin  about  takin'  one  o9 
the  children  and  what  a  comfort  it  would  be  to 
the  child  to  git  out  into  the  fresh  air,  and  one 
mornin'  'fore  she  left  she  took  Jed  down  in  the 
woods  and  talked  to  him,  and  the  week  after  she 
left  for  home  Marm  Marvin  sent  me  over  to  the 
station — same  place  I  fetched  ye — and  out  she  got 
with  a  tag  sewed  on  her  jacket  and  her  name  on 
it,  and  a  bundle  o'  clothes  no  bigger'n  your  head. 
She  was  'bout  seven  or  eight  years  old,  and  the 
cunnin'est  young  un  ye  ever  see.  Jus'  the  same 
eyes  she's  got  now,  only  they  looked  bigger,  'cause 
her  cheeks  was  caved  in." 

"Not  Ruby,  Jim!"  I  cried,  in  astonishment. 

"Yes,  Ruby.    That's  what  was  on  the  tag." 

"And  she  isn't  Marvin's  child?" 

"No  more'n  she's  yourn,  nor  mine.  She  ain't 
20? 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

nobody's  child  that  anybody  knows  about.  She's 
jus'  Ruby,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  her. 

"Well,  by  the  time  I'd  got  her  out  to  the  farm 
and  had  heared  her  talk  and  seen  her  clap  her 
hands  at  the  chippies,  and  laugh  at  the  birds,  and 
go  half  wild  over  every  little  thing  she'd  see,  I 
knowed  I'd  got  hold  o'  something  that  filled  up 
every  crack  o'  my  heart.  And  she  didn't  come  a 
day  too  soon,  for  Jed  had  got  so  ugly  there  warn't 
no  livin'  with  him,  and  I'd  made  up  my  mind  to 
quit,  and  I  would  if  he  hadn't  took  a  streak  ag'in 
Ruby  at  the  start.  Then  I  knowed  where  my  trail 
led.  And  arter  that  I  never  let  her  out  o'  my 
sight.  Marm  Marvin  was  different.  She  never 
had  no  child  o'  her  own,  and  she  warmed  up  to 
Ruby  more'n  more  every  day,  and  she  loves  her 
now  much  as  she  kin  love  anything. 

"That  fust  winter  we  had  a  good  deal  o'  snow 
and  I  made  a  pair  o'  leggins  for  her  out  o'  a  deer's 
skin  I'd  killed,  and  rigged  up  a  sled,  and  I'd  haul 
her  after  me  wherever  I  went,  and  when  school 
opened  down  to  the  cross-roads  I'd  haul  her  down 
and  bring  her  back  if  the  snow  warn't  too  deep, 
and  when  summer  come  she'd  go  'long  jus'  the 
same.  I  taught  her  to  fish  and  shoot,  and  often 
she'd  stay  out  in  camp  with  me  all  night  when  I 
was  tendin'  the  sugar-maples — she  sleepin'  on  the 
balsams  with  my  coat  throwed  over  her. 

"Things  went  on  this  way  till  'bout  three  years 
ago,  when  I  see  she  warn't  gittin'  ahead  fast  as 
208 


JIM 

she  could,  and  I  went  for  the  old  man  to  send  her 
to  school  down  to  Plymouth.  Marm  Marvin  was 
willin',  but  Jed  held  out,  and  at  last  he  give  in 
after  my  talkin'  to  him.  So  I  hooked  up  the  buck- 
board  and  drove  her  down  to  Plymouth  and  left 
her,  with  her  arms  'round  my  neck  and  the  tears 
streamin'  down  her  face.  But  she  was  game  all 
the  same,  only  she  hated  to  have  me  leave  her. 

"Every  July  and  Christmas  I'd  go  for  her,  and 
she'd  allus  be  waitin'  for  me  at  the  head  o'  the 
stairs  or  would  come  runnin'  down  with  her  arms 
wide  open,  and  she'd  kiss  me  and  hug  me  and  call 
me  dear  Uncle  Jim,  and  tell  me  how  she  loved  me, 
and  how  there  warn't  nothin'  in  the  world  she 
loved  so  much  ;  and  then  when  she'd  git  home  we'd 
tramp  the  woods  together  every  chance  we  got." 

Jim  stopped  and  bent  forward,  his  face  in  his 
hands,  his  elbows  on  his  knees.  For  a  time  he 
was  silent ;  then  he  went  on : 

"This  last  time  when  I  went  for  her  she  pretty 
nigh  took  my  breath  away.  She  seemed  just  as 
glad  to  see  me,  but  she  didn't  git  into  my  arms 
as  she  useter,  and  she  looked  different,  too.  She 
had  growed  every  way  bigger,  and  wider,  and 
older.  I  kep'  a-lookin'  at  her,  try  in*  to  find  the 
little  girl  I'd  left  some  months  afore,  but  she 
warn't  there.  She  acted  different,  too — more  quiet 
like  and  still,  so  that  I  was  feared  to  touch  her 
like  I  useter,  and  took  it  out  in  talkin'  to  her  and 
listenin'  to  all  she  told  me  o7  what  she  was  larnin" 
209 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

and  how  this  winter  she  was  goin'  to  git  through 
and  git  her  certificate,  and  then  she  was  goin'  to 
teach  and  help  her  mother — she  allus  called  Marm 
Marvin  mother.  Then  she  told  me  o'  how  one  o' 
the  teachers — a  young  fellow  from  a  college — was 
goin'  to  set  up  a  school  o'  his  own  and  goin'  to 
git  some  o'  the  graduates  to  help  teach  when  he 
got  started,  and  how  he  had  asked  her  to  be  one 
o'  'em,  and  how  she  was  goin'  with  him. 

"Since  you  been  here  and  us  three  been  together 
and  I  begun  to  see  how  happy  she  was  a-talkin'  to 
you  and  askin'  you  questions,  I  got  worse'n  ever 
over  her.  I  begun  to  see  that  I  warn't  what  I 
had  been  to  her.  When  we  was  trampin'  and  fish- 
in'  it  was  all  right  and  she'd  talk  to  me  'bout  the 
ways  o'  the  birds  and  what  flowers  come  up  fust 
and  all  that,  but  when  it  got  to  geography  and  his 
tory  I  warn't  in  it  with  her,  and  you  was.  That 
sickened  me  more'n  ever.  Pretty  soon  I  began 
to  feel  as  if  everything  I  had  in  life  war  slippin' 
away  from  me.  I  didn't  want  her  to  shut  me  out 
from  anything  she  had.  I  wanted  to  have  half, 
same's  we  allus  had — half  for  me  and  half  for  her. 
Why,  lately,  when  I  lay  awake  nights  a-thinkiu'  it 
over,  I've  wished  sometimes  that  she  hadn't 
growed  up  at  all,  and  that  she'd  allus  be  my  baby- 
girl  and  I  her  Uncle  Jim. 

"Yesterday  mornin* — "  Jim's  voice  broke,  and 
he  cleared  his  throat  "Yesterday  mornm'  we 
went  down  the  branch,  as  ye  know,  and  she  was 
210 


LONG   JIM 

a-settin'  on  a  log  throwin'  her  fly  into  the  pool, 
when  one  o'  them  song-sparrows  lit  on  a  bush  and 
looked  at  her,  and  begin  to  sing  like  he'd  bust  his 
little  chest,  and  she  sung  back  at  him  with  her 
eyes  a-laughin'  and  her  hair  a-flyin',  and  I  stood 
lookin'  at  her  and  my  heart  choked  up  in  my 
throat,  and  I  leaned  over  and  took  the  rod  out  o' 
her  hand. 

"  'Baby-girl,'  I  says,  'there  ain't  a  bird  'round 
here  that  ain't  got  a  mate ;  and  that's  what  makes 
'em  so  happy.  I  ain't  got  nobody  but  you,  Ruby 
— don't  go  'way  from  me,  child — stay  with  me/ 
And  I  told  her.  She  looked  at  me  startled  like, 
same  as  a  deer  does  when  he  hears  a  dog  bark; 
then  she  jumped  up  and  begin  to  cry. 

"  'Oh,  Jim — Jim — dear  Jim !'  she  says.  'I 
love  you  so,  and  you've  been  so  good  to  me  all 
my  life,  but  don't — don't  never  say  that  to  me 
again.  That  can  never  be — not  so  long  as  we  live/ 
And  she  dropped  down  on  the  ground  and  cried 
till  she  couldn't  git  her  breath.  Then  she  got  up 
and  kissed  my  hands  and  went  home,  leavin'  me 
there  alone  feelin'  like  I'd  fell  off  a  scaffoldin'  and 
struck  the  sidewalk." 

Jim  arose  from  his  seat  and  began  pacing  the 
platform  again.  I  had  not  spoken  a  word  through 
his  long  story. 

"Jim,"  I  began,  "how  old  are  you  ?" 

"Forty-two,"  he  said,  in  a  patient,  listless  way. 

"More  than  twice  as  old  as  Ruby,  aren't  you? 
211 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

Old  enough,  really,  to  be  her  father.  You  love 
her,  don't  you — love  her  for  herself — not  your 
self  ?  You  wouldn't  let  anything  hurt  her  if  you 
could  help  it.  You  were  right  when  you  said 
every  bird  has  its  mate.  That's  true,  Jim,  and 
the  way  it  ought  to  be — but  they  mate  with  this 
year's  birds,  not  last  year's.  When  men  get  as  old 
as  you  and  I  we  forget  these  things  sometimes, 
but  they  are  true  all  the  same." 

"I  know  it,"  he  broke  out,  "I  know  it ;  you  can't 
tell  me  nothin'  about  it.  I  thought  it  all  over 
more'n  a  hundred  times  lately.  I  could  bite  my 
tongue  off  for  sayin'  what  I  did  to  her,  and  spilin' 
her  visit,  but  it's  done  now  and  I  can't  help  it, 
and  I've  got  to  stay  here  and  bear  it." 

"No,  Jim,  don't  stay  here.  So  long  as  she  sees 
you  around  here  she'll  be  unhappy,  and  you  will 
be  equally  miserable.  Go  away  from  here;  find 
work  somewhere  else." 

"When  1"-  he  said,  quietly. 

"Now;  right  away;  before  she  comes  back  at 
Christmas." 

"No,  I  can't  do  it,  and  I  won't.  Not  till  she 
graduates  and  gits  her  certificate.  That'll  be  next 
June." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it  ?" 

"Got  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it.  If  I  should 
leave  now  jes's  winter's  comin'  on  I  mightn't  git 
another  job,  and  she'd  have  to  come  home  and  her 
eddication  be  sp'ilt." 

212 


LONG   JIM 

"What  would  bring  her  home  ?"  I  asked  in  sur 
prise. 

"What  would  bring  her  home?"  he  repeated, 
with  some  irritation.  "Why  they'd  send  her  if 
the  bills  warn't  paid — that's  what.  Marm  Marvin 
couldn't  help  her,  and  Jed  wouldn't  give  her  a 
cent.  Them  school-bills,  you  know,  I've  always 
paid  out  o'  my  wages — that's  why  Jed  let  her  go. 
~No ;  I'll  stick  it  out  here  till  she  finishes,  if  it  kills 
me.  Baby-girl  sha'n't  miss  nothin'  through  me." 

One  beautiful  spring  day  I  swung  back  the  gate 
of  a  garden  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village  of 
Plymouth  and  walked  up  a  flower-bordered  path 
to  a  cottage  porch  smothered  in  vines. 

Ruby  was  standing  in  the  door,  her  hands  held 
out  to  me.  I  had  not  seen  her  for  years.  Her 
husband  had  not  returned  yet  from  their  school, 
but  she  expected  him  every  minute. 

"And  dear  old  Jim  ?"  I  asked.  "What  has  be 
come  of  him?" 

"Look,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a  shambling,  awk 
ward  figuro  stooping  under  the  apple-trees,  which 
were  in  full  bloom.  "There  he  is,  picking  blossoms 
with  little  Ruby.  He  never  leaves  her  for  a 
minute." 


SIS 


COMPARTMENT    NUMBER    FOUR 
—COLOGNE   TO  PARIS 


COMPARTMENT    NUMBER    FOUR 
-COLOGNE   TO   PARIS 

He  was  looking  through  a  hole — a  square  hole, 
framed  about  with  mahogany  and  ground  glass. 
His  face  was  red,  his  eyes  were  black,  his  mus 
tache — waxed  to  two  needle-points — was  a  yellow 
ish  brown;  his  necktie  blue  and  his  uniform  dark 
chocolate  seamed  with  little  threads  of  vermilion 
and  incrusted  with  silver  poker-chip  buttons  em 
blazoned  with  the  initials  of  the  corporation  which 
he  served. 

I  knew  I  was  all  right  when  I  read  the  initials. 
I  had  found  the  place  and  the  man.  The  place 
was  the  ticket-office  of  the  International  Sleeping- 
Car  Company.  The  man  was  its  agent. 

So  I  said,  very  politely  and  in  my  best  French 
— it  is  a  little  frayed  and  worn  at  the  edges,  but 
it  arrives — sometimes 

"A  lower  for  Paris." 

The  man  in  chocolate,  with  touches  of  the  three 
primary  colors  distributed  over  his  person,  half- 
closed  his  eyes,  lifted  his  shoulders  in  a  tired  way, 
loosened  his  fingers,  and,  without  changing  the 
lay-figure  expression  of  his  face,  replied: 

"There  is  nothing." 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

"Not  a  berth?" 

"Rot  a  berth." 

"Are  they  all  paid  for?"  and  I  accented  the 
word  paid.  I  spend  countless  nights  on  Pullmans 
in  my  own  country  and  am  familiar  with  many 
uncanny  devices. 

"All  but  one." 

"Why  can't  I  have  it?  It  is  within  an  hour  of 
train-time.  Who  ordered  it?" 

"The  Director  of  the  great  circus.  He  is  here 
now  waiting  for  his  troupe,  which  arrives  from 
Berlin  in  a  special  car  belonging  to  our  company. 
The  other  car — the  one  that  starts  from  here — is 
full.  We  have  only  two  cars  on  this  train — Mon 
sieur  the  Director  has  the  last  berth." 

He  said  this,  of  course,  in  his  native  language. 
I  am  merely  translating  it.  I  would  give  it  to  you 
in  the  original,  but  it  might  embarrass  you;  it  cer 
tainly  would  me. 

"What's  the  matter  with  putting  the  Circus  Di 
rector  in  the  special  car?  Your  regulations  say 
berths  must  be  paid  for  one  hour  before  train- 
time.  It  is  now  fifty-five  minutes  of  eight.  Your 
train  goes  at  eight,  doesn't  it?  Here  is  a  twenty- 
franc  gold  piece — never  mind  the  change" — and  I 
flung  a  napoleon  on  the  desk  before  him. 

The  bunch  of  fingers  disentangled  themselves, 

the  shoulders  sank  an  inch,  the  waxed  ends  of  the 

taffy-colored    mustache    vibrated   slightly,    and    a 

smile  widened  in  circles  across  the  flat  dulness  of 

218 


COMPARTMENT    NUMBER   FOUR 

his  face  until  it  engulfed  his  eyebrows,  ears,  and 
chin.  The  effect  of  the  dropping  of  the  coin  had 
been  like  the  dropping  of  a  stone  into  the  still 
smoothness  of  a  pool — the  wrinkling  wavelets  had 
reached  the  uttermost  shore-line. 

The  smile  over,  he  opened  a  book  about  the  size 
of  an  atlas,  dipped  a  pen  in  an  inkstand,  recorded 
my  point  of  departure — Cologne,  and  my  point  of 
arrival — Paris;  dried  the  inscription  with  a  pinch 
of  black  sand  filched  from  a  saucer — same  old 
black  sand  used  in  the  last  century — cut  a  section 
of  the  page  with  a  pair  of  shears,  tossed  the  coin 
in  the  air,  listened  to  its  ring  on  the  desk  with  a 
satisfied  look,  slipped  the  whole  twenty-franc  piece 
into  his  pocket — regular  fare,  fifteen  francs,  ir 
regular  swindle,  five  francs — and  handed  me  the 
billet.  Then  he  added,  with  a  trace  of  humor  in 
his  voice: 

"If  Monsieur  the  Director  of  the  Circus  comes 
now  he  will  go  in  the  special  car." 

I  examined  the  billet.  I  had  Compartment 
Number  Four,  upper  berth,  Car  312. 

I  lighted  a  cigarette,  gave  my  small  luggage- 
checks  to  a  porter  with  directions  to  deposit  my 
traps  in  my  berth  when  the  train  was  ready — the 
company's  office  was  in  the  depot — and  strolled  out 
to  look  at  the  station. 

You  know  the  Cologne  station,  of  course.  It 
is  as  big  as  the  Coliseum,  shaped  like  an  old-fash 
ioned  hoop-skirt  with  a  petticoat  of  glass,  and 
219 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

connects  with  one  of  the  most  beautiful  bridges 
in  the  world.  It  has  two  immense  waiting-rooms, 
with  historical  frescos  on  the  walls  and  two  huge 
fireplaces  supported  on  nudities  shivering  with  the 
cold,  for  no  stick  of  wood  ever  blazes  on  the  well- 
swept  hearths.  It  has  also  a  gorgeous  restaurant, 
with  panelled  ceiling,  across  which  skip  bunches 
of  butterfly  Cupids  in  shameless  costumes,  and  an 
inviting  cafe  with  never-dying  palms  in  the  win 
dows,  a  portrait  of  the  Kaiser  over  the  counter 
holding  the  coffee-urn,  and  a  portrait  of  the 
Kaiserin  over  the  counter  holding  the  little  sticky 
cakes,  the  baby  bottles  of  champagne,  and  the 
long  lady-finger  sandwiches  with  bits  of  red  ham 
hanging  from  their  open  ends  like  poodle-dogs' 
tongues. 

Outside  these  ponderous  rooms,  under  the  arch 
ing  glass  of  the  station  itself,  is  a  broad  platform 
protected  from  rushing  trains  and  yard  engines  by 
a  wrought-iron  fence,  twisted  into  most  enchanting 
scrolls  and  pierced  down  its  whole  length  by  slid 
ing  wickets,  before  which  stand  be-capped  and  be- 
buttoned  officials  of  the  road.  It  is  part  of  the 
duty  of  these  gatemen  never  to  let  you  through 
these  wickets  until  the  arrival  of  the  last  possible 
moment  compatible  with  the  boarding  of  your 
car. 

So  if  you  are  wise — that  is,  if  you  have  been 
left  behind  several  times  depending  on  the  watch 
fulness  of  these  Cerberi  and  their  promises  to  let 
•220 


COMPARTMENT    NUMBER   FOUR 

you  know  when  your  train  is  ready — you  hang 
about  this  gate  and  keep  an  eye  out  as  to  what  is 
going  on.  I  had  been  two  nights  on  the  sleeper 
through  from  Warsaw  and  beyond,  and  could 
take  no  chances. 

Then  again,  I  wanted  to  watch  the  people  com 
ing  and  going — it  is  a  habit  of  mine ;  nothing  gives 
me  greater  pleasure.  It  has  made  me  an  expert 
in  judging  human  nature.  I  flatter  myself  that 
I  can  tell  the  moment  I  set  my  eyes  on  a  man 
just  what  manner  of  life  he  leads,  what  language 
he  speaks,  whether  he  be  rich  or  poor,  educated 
or  ignorant.  I  can  do  all  this  before  he  opens  his 
mouth.  I  have  never  been  proud  of  this  faculty. 
I  have  regarded  it  more  as  a  gift,  as  I  would  an 
acute  sense  of  color,  or  a  correct  j/e  for  drawing, 
or  the  ability  to  acquire  a  language  quickly.  I  was 
born  that  way,  I  suppose. 

The  first  man  to  approach  the  wicket  was  the 
Director  of  the  Circus.  I  knew  him  at  once. 
There  was  no  question  as  to  his  identity.  He  wore 
a  fifty-candle-power  stone  in  his  shirt-front,  a  silk 
hat  that  shone  like  a  new  hansom  cab,  and  a  Prince 
Albert  coat  that  came  below  his  knees.  He  had 
taken  off  his  ring  boots,  of  course,  and  was  with 
out  his  whip,  but  otherwise  he  was  completely 
equipped  to  raise  his  hat  and  say :  "Ladies  and  Gen 
tlemen,  the  world-renowned,"  etc.,  etc.,  "will  now 
perform  the  blood-curdling  act  of,"  etc. 

He  was  attended  by  a  servant,  was  smooth- 
221 


THE   tINDEK  DOG 

shaven,  had  an  Oriental  complexion  as  yellow  as 
the  Lack  of  an  old  law-book,  black,  jet-black  eyes, 
and  jet-black  hair. 

I  listened  for  some  outbreak,  some  explosion 
about  his  bed  having  been  sold  from  under  him, 
some  protest  about  the  rights  of  a  citizen.  None 
came.  The  gateman  merely  touched  his  hat,  slid 
back  the  gate,  and  the  Director  of  the  Greatest 
Show  on  Earth,  smiling  haughtily,  passed  in, 
crossed  the  platform  and  stepped  into  a  wagon-lit 
standing  on  the  next  track  to  me  labelled  "Paris 
312,"  and  left  me  behind.  The  gateman  had  had 
free  tickets,  of  course,  or  would  have,  for  him 
self  and  family  whenever  the  troupe  should  be  in 
Cologne.  There  was  no  doubt  of  it — I  saw  it  in 
the  smile  that  permeated  his  face  and  the  bow  that 
bent  his  back  as  the  man  passed  him.  This  kind 
of  petty  bribery  is,  of  course,  abominable,  and 
should  never  be  countenanced. 

Some  members  of  the  troupe  came  next.  The 
gentleman  in  chocolate  with  my  five  francs  in  his 
pocket  did  not  mention  the  name  of  any  other 
member  of  the  troupe  except  the  Director,  but  it 
was  impossible  for  me  to  be  mistaken  about  these 
people — I  have  seen  too  many  of  them. 

She  was  rather  an  imposing-looking  woman — 
not  young,  not  old — dressed  in  a  long  travelling- 
cloak  trimmed  with  fur  (how  well  we  know  these 
night-cloaks  of  the  professional!),  and  was  hold 
ing  by  a  short  leash  an  enormous  Danish  hound; 
22?. 


COMPARTMENT   NUMBER   FOUR 

one  of  those  great  hulking  hounds — a  hound  whose 
shoulders  shake  when  he  walks,  with  white, 
blinky  eyes,  smooth  skin,  and  mottled  spots — 
brown  and  gray — spattered  along  his  back  and 
ribs.  Trick  dog,  evidently — one  who  springs  at 
the  throat  of  the  assassin  (the  assassin  has  a  thin 
slice  of  sausage  tucked  inside  his  collar-button), 
pulls  him  to  the  earth,  and  sucks  his  life's  blood 
or  chews  his  throat.  She,  too,  went  through  with 
a  sweep — the  dog  beside  her,  followed  by  a  maid 
carrying  two  band-boxes,  a  fur  boa,  and  a  bunch 
of  parasols  closely  furled  and  tied  with  a  ribbon. 
I  braced  up,  threw  out  my  shoulders,  and  walked 
boldly  up  to  the  wicket.  The  be-buttoned  and  be- 
capped  man  looked  at  me  coldly,  waved  me  away 
with  his  hand,  and  said  "Nein." 

Now,  when  a  man  of  intelligence,  speaking  the 
language  of  the  country,  backed  by  the  police,  the 
gendarmerie,  and  the  Imperial  Army,  says  "Nein" 
to  me,  if  I  am  away  from  home  I  generally  bow 
to  the  will  of  the  people. 

So  I  waited. 

Then  I  heard  the  low  rumble  of  a  train  and  a 
short  high-keyed  shriek — we  used  to  make  just 
such  shrieking  sounds  by  blowing  into  keys  when 
we  were  boys.  The  St.  Petersburg  express  was 
approaching  end  foremost — the  train  with  the 
special  sleeping-car  holding  the  balance  of  the  cir 
cus  troupe.  The  next  moment  it  bumped  gently 
into  Car  No.  312,  holding  the  Director  (I  won- 
223 


THE    UNDER   DOG 

dered  whether  he  had  my  berth),  the  woman  with 
the  dog,  and  her  maid. 

The  gateman  paused  until  the  train  came  to  a 
dead  standstill,  waited  until  the  last  arriving  pas 
senger  had  passed  through  an  exit  lower  down 
along  the  fence,  slid  back  the  gate,  and  I  walked 
through — alone!  Not  another  passenger  either 
before  or  behind  me!  And  the  chocolate  gentle 
man  told  me  the  car  was  full!  The  fraud! 

When  I  reached  the  steps  of  Car  No.  312  I 
found  a  second  gentleman  in  chocolate  and  poker- 
chip  buttons.  He  was  scrutinizing  a  list  of  sold 
and  unsold  compartments  by  the  aid  of  a  conduc 
tor's  lantern  braceleted  on  his  elbow.  He  turned 
the  glare  of  his  lantern  on  my  ticket,  entered  the 
car  and  preceded  me  down  its  narrow  aisle  and 
slid  back  the  door  of  Number  Four.  I  stepped 
in,  and  discovered,  to  my  relief,  my  small  lug 
gage,  hat-box,  shawl,  and  umbrella,  safely  de 
posited  in  the  upper  berth.  My  night's  rest,  at  all 
events,  was  assured. 

I  found  also  a  bald-headed  passenger,  who  was 
standing  with  his  back  to  me  stowing  his  small  lug 
gage  into  the  lower  berth.  He  looked  at  me  over 
his  shoulder  for  a  moment,  moved  his  bag  so  that 
I  could  pass,  and  went  on  with  his  work.  My 
sharing  his  compartment  had  evidently  produced 
an  unpleasant  impression. 

I  slipped  off  my  overcoat,  found  my  travelling- 
cap,  and  was  about  to  light  a  fresh  cigarette  when 
224 


there  came  a  tap  at  the  door.  Outside  in  the  aisle 
stood  a  man  with  a  silk  hat  in  his  hand. 

"Monsieur,  I  am  the  Manager  of  the  Com- 
pagnie  Internationale.  It  is  my  pleasure  to  ask 
whether  you  have  everything  for  your  comfort.  I 
am  going  on  to  Paris  with  this  same  train,  so  I 
shall  be  quite  within  your  reach." 

I  thanked  him  for  his  courtesy,  assured  him 
that  now  that  all  my  traps  were  in  my  berth  and 
the  conductor  had  shown  me  to  my  compartment, 
my  wants  were  supplied,  and  watched  him  knock 
at  the  next  door.  Then  I  stepped  out  into  the 
aisle. 

It  was  an  ordinary  European  Pullman,  some  ten 
staterooms  in  a  row,  a  lavatory  at  one  end  and 
a  three-foot  sofa  at  the  other.  When  you  are  un 
willing  to  take  your  early  morning  coffee  on  the 
gritty,  dust-covered,  one-foot-square,  propped-up- 
with-a-leg  table  in  your  stuffy  compartment,  you 
drink  it  sitting  on  this  sofa.  Three  of  these  com 
partment  doors  were  open.  The  woman  with  the 
dog  was  in  Number  One.  The  big  dog  and  the 
maid  in  Number  Two,  and  the  King  Master  in 
Number  Three  (his  original  number,  no  doubt;  the 
clerk  had  only  lied) — I,  of  course,  came  next  in 
Number  Four. 

Soon  I  became  conscious  that  a  discussion  was 

going  on  in  the  newly  arrived  circus-car  whose 

platform  touched  ours.    I  could  hear  the  voice  of  a 

woman  and  then  the  gruff  tones  of  a  man.    Then 

225 


THE   UNDER  DOG 

a  babel  of  sounds  came  sifting  down  the  aisle.  I 
stepped  over  the  dog,  who  had  now  stretched  him 
self  at  full  length  in  the  aisle,  and  out  on  to  the 
platform. 

A  third  gentleman  in  chocolate— the  porter  of 
the  circus-car  and  a  duplicate  of  our  own — was  be 
ing  besieged  by  a  group  of  people  all  talking  at 
once  and  all  in  different  tongues.  A  mild-eyed, 
pink-cheeked  young  man  in  spectacles  was  speak 
ing  German;  a  richly  dressed  woman  of  thirty- 
five,  very  stately  and  very  beautiful,  was  inter 
polating  in  Russian,  and  a  plump,  rosy-cheeked, 
energetic  little  Englishwoman  was  hurling  Eng 
lish  in  a  way  as  pointed  as  it  was  forcible.  Every 
body  was  excited  and  everybody  was  angry.  Stand 
ing  in  the  car-door  listening  intently  was  a  French 
maid  and  two  round-faced,  wide-collared  boys,  of 
say  ten  and  twelve.  The  dispute  was  evidently 
over  these  two  boys,  as  every  attack  contained 
some  direct  allusion  to  "mes  enfants"  or  "these 
children"  or  "die  Kinder,"  ending  in  the  fore 
finger  of  each  speaker  being  thrust  bayonet  fash- 
•ion  toward  the  boys. 

While  I  was  making  up  my  mind  as  to  the  par 
ticular  roles  which  these  several  members  of  the 
Greatest  Show  on  Earth  played,  I  heard  the  Eng 
lish  girl  say — in  French,  of  course — English- 
French — with  an  accent: 

"It  is  a  shame  to  be  treated  in  this  way.  We 
have  paid  for  every  one  of  these  compartments, 
226 


Everybody  was  excited  and  everybody  was  mad. 


and  you  know  it.  The  young  masters  will  not  gQ 
in  those  vile-smelling  staterooms  for  the  night. 
It's  no  place  for  them.  I  will  go  to  the  office  and 
complain." 

The  third  chocolate  attendant,  in  reply,  merely 
lifted  his  shoulders.  It  was  the  same  old  lift — 
a  tired  feeling  seems  to  permeate  these  gentlemen, 
as  if  they  were  bored  to  death.  A  hotel  clerk  on 
the  Riviera  sometimes  has  thia  lift  when  he  tells 
you  he  has  not  a  bed  in  the  house  and  you  tell  him 
he — prevaricates.  I  knew  something  of  the  lift — 
it  had  already  cost  me  five  francs.  I  knew,  too, 
what  kind  of  medicine  that  sort  of  tired  feeling 
needed,  and  that  until  the  bribe  was  paid  the 
young  woman  and  her  party  would  be  bedless. 

My  own  anger  was  now  aroused.  Here  was  a 
woman,  rather  a  pretty  woman,  an  Anglo-Saxon 
— my  own  race — in  a  strange  city  and  under  the 
power  of  a  minion  whose  only  object  was  plunder. 
That  she  jumped  through  hoops  or  rode  bareback 
in  absurdly  short  clothes,  or  sold  pink  lemonade  in. 
spangles,  made  no  difference.  She  was  in  trouble, 
and  needed  assistance.  I  advanced  with  my  best 
bow. 

"Madam,  can  I  do  anything  for  you?" 

She  turned,  and,  with  a  grateful  smile,  said: 

"Oh,  you  speak  English?" 

I  again  inclined  my  head. 

"Well,  sir,  we  have  come  from  St.  Petersburg 
by  way  of  Berlin.  We  had  five  compartments 
227 


THE   UKDEK   DOG 

through  to  Paris  for  our  party  when  we  started, 
all  paid  for,  and  this  man  has  the  tickets.  He 
says  we  must  get  out  here  and  buy  new  tickets  01 
we  must  all  go  in  two  staterooms,  which  is  impos 
sible — "  and  she  swept  her  hand  over  the  balance 
of  the  troupe. 

The  chocolate  gentleman  again  lifted  his  shoul 
ders.  He  had  been  abused  in  that  way  by  passen 
gers  since  the  day  of  his  birth. 

The  richly  dressed  woman,  another  Leading 
Lady  doubtless,  now  joined  in  the  conversation — 
she  probably  was  the  trained  rabbit-woman  or  the 
girl  with  the  pigeons — pigeons  most  likely,  for 
these  stars  are  always  selected  by  the  management 
for  their  beauty,  and  she  certainly  was  beau 
tiful. 

"And  Monsieur" — this  in  French — again  I 
spare  the  reader — "I  have  given  him" — pointing 
to  the  chocolate  gentleman — "pour  boire  all  the 
time.  One  hundred  francs  yesterday  and  two  gold 
pieces  this  morning.  My  maid  is  quite  right — it  is 
abominable,  such  treatment ' 

The  personalities  now  seemed  to  weary  the  at 
tendant.  His  elbows  widened,  his  shoulders  nearly 
touched  his  ears,  and  his  fingers  opened;  then  he 
went  into  his  closet  and  shut  the  door.  So  far  as 
he  was  concerned  the  debate  was  closed. 

The  memory  of  my  own  five  francs  now  loomed 
up,  and  with  them  the  recollection  of  the  trick  by 
which  they  had  been  stolen  from  me. 
228 


COMPARTMENT   NUMBER   FOUR 

"Madam,"  I  said,  gravely,  "I  will  bring  the 
manager.  He  is  here  and  will  see  that  justice  is 
done  you." 

It  was  marvellous  to  watch  what  followed. 
The  manager  listened  patiently  to  the  Pigeon 
Charmer's  explanation  of  the  outrage,  started  sud 
denly  when  she  mentioned  some  details  which  I 
did  not  hear,  bowed  as  low  to  her  reply  as  if  she 
had  been  a  Duchess — his  hat  to  the  floor — slid 
back  the  closet-door,  beckoned  me  to  step  in, 
closed  it  again  upon  the  three  of  us,  and  in  less 
than  five  minutes  he  had  the  third  chocolate  gen 
tleman  out  of  his  chocolate  uniform  and  stripped 
to  his  underwear,  with  every  pocket  turned  inside 
out,  bringing  to  light  the  one-hundred-franc  note, 
the  gold  pieces,  and  all  five  of  the  circus  parties' 
tickets. 

Then  he  flung  the  astonished  and  humiliated 
man  his  trousers,  waited  until  he  had  pulled  them 
on,  grabbed  him  by  his  shirt-collar  and  marched 
him  out  of  the  car  across  the  platform  through  the 
wicket  gate,  every  passenger  on  the  train  looking 
on  in  wonder.  Five  minutes  later  the  whole  party 
— the  stately  Pigeon  Charmer,  her  English  maid, 
the  spectacled  German  (performing  sword-swab 
lower  or  lightning  calculator  probably),  and  the 
two  boys  (tumblers  unquestionably),  with  all  their 
belongings — were  transferred  to  my  car,  the  Pig 
eon  Charmer  graciously  accepting  my  escort,  the 
passengers,  including  the  bald-headed  man — my 
229 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

room-mate — standing  on  one  side  to  let  us  pass: 
all  except  the  big  dog,  who  had  shifted  his  quarters, 
and  was  now  stretched  out  at  the  sofa  end  of  the 
car. 

Then  another  extraordinary  thing  happened — 
or  rather  a  series  of  extraordinary  things. 

When  I  had  deposited  the  Pigeon  Charmer  in 
her  own  compartment  (Number  Five,  next  door), 
and  had  entered  my  own,  I  found  my  bald-headed 
room-mate  again  inside.  This  time  he  was  seated 
by  the  foot-square,  dust-covered  table  assorting 
cigarettes.  He  had  transferred  my  small  luggage — 
bag,  coat,  etc. — to  the  lower  berth,  and  had  ar 
ranged  his  own  belongings  in  the  upper  one. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  the  instant  he  saw  me. 

The  bow  of  the  Sleeping-Car  Manager  to  the 
Pigeon  Charmer  was  but  a  bend  in  a  telegraph-pole 
to  the  sweep  the  bald-headed  man  now  made  me. 
I  thought  his  scalp  would  touch  the  car-floor. 

"No,  your  Highness,"  he  cried,  "I  insist" — this 
to  my  protest  that  I  had  come  last — that  he  had 
prior  right — besides,  he  was  an  older  man,  etc., 
etc. — "I  could  not  sleep  if  I  thought  you  were  not 
most  comfortable — nothing  can  move  me.  Pardon 
me — will  not  your  Highness  accept  one  of  my 
poor  cigarettes?  They,  of  course,  are  not  like  the 
ones  you  use,  but  I  always  do  my  best.  I  have  now 
a  new  cigarette-girl,  and  she  rolled  them  for  me 
herself,  and  brought  them  to  me  just  as  I  was 
leaving  St.  Petersburg.  Permit  me" — and  he 
230 


COMPARTMENT    NUMBER    FOUR 

handed  me  a  little  leather  box  filled  with  Russian 
cigarettes. 

Now,  figuratively  speaking,  when  you  have 
been  buncoed  out  of  five  francs  by  a  menial  in  a 
ticket-office,  jumped  upon  and  trampled  under 
foot  by  a  gate-keeper  who  has  kept  you  cooling 
your  heels  outside  his  wicket  while  your  inferiors 
have  passed  in  ahead  of  you — to  have  even  a  bald- 
headed  man  kotow  to  you,  give  you  the  choice 
berth  in  the  compartment,  move  your  traps  him 
self,  and  then  apologize  for  offering  you  the  best 
cigarette  you  ever  smoked  in  your  life — well!  that 
is  to  have  myrrh,  and  frankincense,  and  oil  o£ 
balsam,  and  balm  of  Gilead  poured  on  your  ten- 
derest  wound. 

I  accepted  the  cigarette. 

Not  haughtily — not  even  condescendingly — 
just  as  a  matter  of  course.  He  had  evidently 
found  out  who  and  what  I  was.  He  had  seen  me 
address  the  Pigeon  Charmer,  and  had  recognized 
instantly,  from  my  speech  and  bearing — both, 
perhaps — that  dominating  vital  force,  that  breezy 
independence  which  envelops  most  Americans,  and 
which  makes  them  so  popular  the  world  over. 
In  thus  kotowing  he  was  only  getting  in  line  with 
the  citizens  of  most  of  the  other  effete  monarchies 
of  Europe.  Every  traveller  is  conscious  of  it. 
His  bow  showed  it — so  did  the  soft  purring  qual 
ity  of  his  speech.  Recollections  of  Manila,  San 
tiago,  and  the  voyage  of  the  Oregon  around  Cape 
231 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

Horn  were  in  the  bow,  and  Kansas  wheat,  Georgia 
cotton,  and  the  Steel  Trust  in  the  dulcet  tones  of 
his  voice.  That  he  should  have  mistaken  me  for  a 
great  financial  magnate  controlling  some  one  of 
these  colossal  industries,  instead  of  locating  me  in 
stantly  as  a  staid,  gray-haired,  and  rather  impecu 
nious  landscape-painter,  was  quite  natural.  Others 
before  him  have  made  that  same  mistake.  Why, 
then,  undeceive  him?  Let  it  go — he  would  leave 
in  the  morning  and  go  his  way,  and  I  should  never 
see  him  more.  So  I  smoked  on,  chatting  pleasantly 
and,  as  was  my  custom,  summing  him  up. 

He  was  perhaps  seventy — smooth-shaven — black 
— coal-black  eyes.  Dressed  simply  in  black  clothes 
— not  a  jewel — no  watch-chain  even — no  rings  on 
his  hands  but  a  plain  gold  one  like  a  wedding-ring. 
His  dressing-case  showed  the  gentleman.  Bottles 
with  silver  tops — brushes  backed  with  initials — 
soap  in  a  silver  cup.  Red  morocco  Turkish  slip 
pers  with  pointed  toes;  embroidered  smoking-cap — 
all  appointments  of  a  man  of  refinement  and  of 
means.  Tucked  beside  his  razor-case  were  some 
books  richly  bound,  and  some  bundles  tied  with 
red  tape.  Like  most  educated  Russians,  he  spoke 
English  with  barely  an  accent. 

I  was  not  long  in  arriving  at  a  conclusion.  No 
one  would  have  been — no  one  of  my  experience. 
He  was  either  a  despatch-agent  connected  with  the 
Government,  or  some  lawyer  of  prominence,  who 
was  on  his  way  to  Paris  to  look  after  the  interests 
232 


COMPARTMENT   NUMBER   FOUR 

of  some  client  of  his  in  Russia.  The  latter,  prob 
ably.  The  only  man  on  the  car  he  seemed  to  know, 
besides  myself,  was  the  Sleeping-Car  Manager,  who 
lifted  his  hat  to  him  as  he  passed,  and  the  Ring 
Master,  with  whom  he  stood  talking  at  the  door 
of  his  compartment.  This,  however,  was  before  I 
had  brought  the  Pigeon  Charmer  into  the  car. 

The  cigarette  smoked,  I  was  again  in  the  corri 
dor,  the  bald-headed  man  holding  the  door  for  me 
to  pass  out  first. 

It  was  now  nine  o'clock,  and  we  had  been  under 
way  an  hour.  I  found  the  Pigeon  Charmer  occu 
pying  the  sofa.  The  two  young  Acrobats  and  the 
Lightning  Calculator  were  evidently  in  bed,  and 
the  maid,  no  doubt,  busy  preparing  her  mistress's 
couch  for  the  night.  She  smiled  quite  frankly 
when  I  approached,  and  motioned  me  to  a  seat  be 
side  her.  All  these  professional  people  the  world 
over  have  unconventional  manners,  and  an  ac 
quaintance  is  often  easily  made — at  least,  that  has 
been  my  experience. 

She  began  by  thanking  me  in  French  for  my 
share  in  getting  her  such  comfortable  quarters — 
dropped  into  German  for  a  sentence  or  two,  as  if 
trying  to  find  out  my  nationality — and  finally  into 
English,  saying,  parenthetically: 

"You  are  English,  are  you  not?" 

No  financial  magnate  this  time — rather  queer, 
I  thought — that  she  missed  that  part  of  my  per 
sonality.     My  room-mate  had  recognized  it,  even 
to  the  extent  of  calling  me  "Your  Highness." 
233 


THE    UNDEE   DOG 

"No,  an  American." 

"Oh,  an  American!  Yes,  I  should  have 
known —  No,  you  are  not  English.  You  are  too 
kind  to  be  English.  An  Englishman  would  not 
have  taken  even  a  little  bit  of  trouble  to  help  us." 
I  noticed  the  race  prejudice  in  her  tone,  but  I  did 
not  comment  on  it. 

Then  followed  the  customary  conversation,  I 
doing  most  of  the  talking.  I  began  by  telling  her 
how  big  our  country  was;  how  many  people  we 
had;  how  rich  the  land;  how  wealthy  the  citizens; 
how  great  the  opportunities  for  artists  seeking  dis 
tinction,  etc.  We  all  do  that  with  foreigners. 
Then  I  tried  to  lead  the  conversation  so  as  to  find 
out  something  about  herself — particularly  where 
she  could  be  seen  in  Paris.  She  was  charming  in 
her  travelling-costume- — she  would  be  superb  in 
low  neck  and  bare  arms,  her  pets  snuggling  under 
her  chin,  or  alighting  on  her  upraised,  shapely 
hands.  But  either  she  did  not  understand,  or  she 
would  not  let  me  see  she  did — the  last,  probably, 
for  most  professional  people  dislike  all  reference  to 
their  trade  by  non-professionals — they  object  to  be 
even  mentally  classed  by  themselves. 

While  we  talked  on,  the  Dog  Woman  opened  the 
door  of  her  compartment,  knocked  at  the  Dog's 
door — his  Dogship  and  the  maid  were  inside — pat 
ted  the  brute  on  his  head,  and  re-entered  her  com 
partment  and  shut  the  door  for  the  night. 

I  looked  for  some  recognition  between  the  two 
234 


COMPARTMENT   NUMBER   FOUR 

members  of  the  same  troupe,  but  my  companion 
gave  not  the  slightest  sign  that  the  Dog  Woman 
existed.  Jealous,  of  course,  I  said  to  myself. 
That's  another  professional  trait. 

The  Ring  Master  now  passed,  raised  his  hat  and 
entered  his  compartment.  No  sign  of  recognition; 
rather  a  cold,  frigid  stare,  I  thought. 

The  Sleeping-Car  Manager  next  stepped  through 
the  car,  lifted  his  hat  when  he  caught  sight  of  my 
companion,  tiptoed  deferentially  until  he  reached 
the  door,  and  went  on  to  the  next  car.  She  ac 
knowledged  his  homage  with  a  slight  bend  of  her 
beautiful  head,  rose  from  her  seat,  gave  an  order 
in  Russian  to  her  English  maid  who  was  standing 
in  the  door  of  her  compartment,  held  out  her  hand 
to  me  with  a  frank  good-night,  and  closed  the  door 
behind  her. 

I  looked  in  on  the  bald-headed  man.  He  was 
tucked  away  in  the  upper  berth  sound  asleep. 


When  the  next  morning  I  moved  up  the  long 
platform  of  the  Gare  du  Nord  in  search  of  a  cab, 
I  stepped  immediately  behind  the  big  Danish 
hound.  He  was  hulking  along,  his  shoulders  shak 
ing  as  he  walked,  his  tongue  hanging  from  his 
mouth.  The  Woman  had  him  by  a  leash,  her  maid 
following  with  the  band-boxes,  the  feather  boa, 
and  the  parasols.  In  the  crowd  behind  me  walked 
the  bald-headed  man,  his  arm,  to  my  astonishment, 
235 


THE   UKDER   DOG 

through  that  of  the  Ring  Master's.  They  both  ko 
towed  as  they  switched  off  to  the  baggage-room, 
the  Ring  Master  bowing  even  lower  than  my  room 
mate. 

Then  I  became  sensible  of  a  line  of  lackeys  in 
livery  fringing  the  edge  of  the  platform,  and  at 
their  head  a  most  important-looking  individual 
with  a  decoration  on  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  He  was 
surrounded  by  half  a  dozen  young  men,  some  in 
brilliant  uniforms.  They  were  greeting  with  great 
formality  my  fair  companion  of  the  night  before! 
The  two  Acrobats,  the  German  Calculator,  and  the 
English  bareback-rider  maid  stood  on  one  side. 

My  thought  was  that  it  was  all  an  advertising 
trick  of  the  Circus  people,  arranged  for  spectacular 
effect  to  help  the  night's  receipts. 

While  I  looked  on  in  wonder,  the  Manager  of 
the  Sleeping-Car  Company  joined  me. 

"I  must  thank  you,  sir,"  he  said,  "for  making 
known  to  me  the  outrage  committed  by  one  of  our 
porters  on  the  Princess.  She  is  travelling  incog 
nito,  and  I  did  not  know  she  was  on  the  train  un 
til  she  told  me  last  night  who  she  was.  We  get 
the  best  men  we  can,  but  we  are  constantly  having 
trouble  of  that  kind  with  our  porters.  The  trick 
is  to  give  every  passenger  a  whole  compartment, 
and  then  keep  packing  them  together  unless  they 
pay  something  handsome  to  be  let  alone.  I  shall 
.make  an  example  of  that  fellow.  He  is  a  new  one 
and  didn't  know  me" — and  he  laughed. 
236 


COMPARTMENT    NUMBER   FOUR 

"Do  they  call  her  the  Princess?"  I  asked. 
They  were  certainly  receiving  her  like  one,  I 
thought. 

"Why,  certainly,  I  thought  you  knew  her," 
and  he  looked  at  me  curiously,  "the  Princess 
])olgorouki  Sliniski.  Her  husband,  the  Prince,  is 
attached  to  the  Emperor's  household.  She  is  trav 
elling  with  her  two  boys  and  their  German  tutor. 
The  old  gentleman  with  the  white  mustache  now 
talking  to  her  is  the  Russian  Ambassador.  And 
you  only  met  her  on  the  train?  Old  Azarian  told 
me  you  knew  her  intimately." 

"Azarian!"  I  was  groping  round  in  the  fog 
now. 

"Yes — your  room-mate.  He  is  an  Armenian 
and  one  of  the  richest  bankers  in  Russia.  He 
lends  money  to  the  Czar.  His  brother  got  on  with 
you  at  Cologne.  There  they  go  together  to  look 
after  their  luggage — they  have  an  agency  here,  al 
though  their  main  bank  is  in  St.  Petersburg.  The 
brother  had  the  compartment  next  to  that  woman 
with  the  big  dog.  She  is  the  wife  of  a  rich  brewer 
in  Cologne,  and  just  think — we  must  always  give 
that  brute  a  compartment  when  she  travels.  Is  it 
not  outrageous?  It  is  against  the  rules,  but  the 
orders  come  from  up  above" — and  he  jerked  his 
finger  meaningly  over  his  shoulder. 

The  fog  was  so  thick  now  I  could  cut  it  with  a 
knife. 

"One  moment,  please,"  I  said,  and  I  laid  my 
237 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

hand  on  his  elbow  and  looked  him  searchingly  in 
the  eye.  I  intended  now  to  clear  things  up. 
"Was  there  a  circus  troupe  on  the  train  last 
night?" 

"No."  The  answer  came  quite  simply,  and  I 
could  see  it  was  the  truth. 

"Nor  one  expected?" 

"No.  There  was  a  circus,  but  it  went  through 
last  week." 


SAMMY 


SAMMY 

It  was  on  the  Limited:  10.30  Night  Express 
out  of  Louisville,  bound  south  to  Nashville  and 
beyond. 

I  had  lower  Four. 

When  I  entered  the  sleeper  the  porter  was  mak 
ing  up  the  berths,  the  passengers  sitting  about  in 
each  other's  way  until  their  beds  were  ready. 

I  laid  my  bag  on  an  empty  seat,  threw  my  over 
coat  over  its  back,  and  sat  down  to  face  a  news 
paper  within  a  foot  of  my  nose.  There  was  a 
man  behind  it,  but  he  was  too  intent  on  its  columns 
to  be  aware  of  my  presence.  I  made  an  inspection 
of  his  arms  and  hands  and  right  leg,  the  only  por 
tions  of  his  surface  exposed  to  view. 

I  noticed  that  the  hands  were  strong  and  well- 
shaped,  their  backs  speckled  with  brown  spots — 
too  well  kept  to  have  guided  a  plough  and  too 
weather-tanned  to  have  wielded  a  pen.  The  leg 
which  was  crossed,  the  foot  resting  on  the  left 
knee,  was  full  and  sinewy,  the  muscles  of  the  thigh 
well  developed,  and  the  round  of  the  calf  firmly 
modelled.  The  ankle  was  small  and  curved  like 
an  axe  handle  and  looked  as  tough. 

There  are  times  when  the  mind  lapses  into  va- 
241 


THE    UNDER   DOG 

cancy.  Nothing  interests  it.  I  find  it  so  while 
waiting  to  have  my  berth  made  up;  sleep  is  too 
near  to  waste  gray  matter. 

A  man's  thighs,  however,  interest  me  in  any 
mood  and  at  any  time.  While  you  may  get  a  man's 
character  from  his  face,  you  can,  if  you  will,  get 
his  past  life  from  his  thigh.  It  is  the  walking 
beam  of  his  locomotion;  controls  his  paddles  and 
is  developed  in  proportion  to  its  uses.  It  indi 
cates,  therefore,  the  man's  habits  and  his  mode  of 
life. 

If  he  has  sat  all  day  with  one  leg  lapped  over 
the  other,  arm  on  chair,  head  on  hand,  listening  or 
studying — preachers,  professors,  and  all  the  other 
sedentaries  sit  like  this — then  the  thigh  shrinks, 
the  muscles  droop,  the  bones  of  the  ankle  bulge, 
and  the  knee-joints  push  through.  If  he  delivers 
mail,  or  collects  bills,  or  drives  a  pack-mule,  or 
walks  a  tow-path,  the  muscles  of  the  thigh  are 
hauled  taut  like  cables,  the  knee-muscles  keep 
their  place,  the  calves  are  full  of  knots — one  big 
one  in  a  bunch  just  below  the  strap  of  his  knicker 
bockers,  should  he  wear  them. 

If  he  carries  big  weights  on  his  back — sacks  of 
salt,  as  do  the  poor  stevedores  in  Venice ;  or  coal  in 
gunnies,  as  do  the  coolies  in  Cuba;  or  wine  in 
casks,  or  coffee  in  bags,  then  the  calves  swell  ab 
normally,  the  thighs  solidify;  the  lines  of  beauty 
are  lost ;  but  the  lines  of  strength  remain. 

If,  however,  he  has  spent  his  life  in  the  saddle, 
242 


SAMMY 

rounding  up  cattle,  chasing  Indians,  hunting  ban 
dits  in  Mexico,  ankle  and  foot  loose,  his  knees 
clutched  tightly,  hugging  that  other  part  of  him, 
the  horse,  then  the  muscles  of  the  thigh  round  out 
their  intended  lines — the  most  subtle  in  the  modu 
lating  curving  of  the  body.  The  aboriginal  bare 
back  rider  must  have  been  a  beauty. 

I  at  once  became  interested  then  in  the  man 
before  me,  or  rather  in  his  thighs — the  "Extra" 
hid  the  rest. 

I  began  to  picture  him  to  myself — young,  blond 
hair,  blue  eyes,  drooping  mustache,  slouch  hat 
canted  rakishly  over  one  eye ;  not  over  twenty-five 
years  of  age.  I  had  thought  forty,  until  a  move 
ment  of  the  paper  uncovered  for  a  moment  his 
•waist-line  which  curved  in  instead  of  out.  This 
settled  it — not  a  day  over  twenty-five,  of  course ! 

The  man's  fingers  tightened  on  the  edges  of  the 
paper.  He  was  still  reading,  entirely  unconscious 
that  my  knees  were  within  two  inches  of  his  own. 

Then  I  heard  this  exclamation — 

"It's  a  damned  outrage !" 

My  curiosity  got  the  better  of  me — I  coughed. 

The  paper  dropped  instantly. 

"My  dear  sir,"  he  said,  bending  forward  courte 
ously  and  laying  his  hand  on  my  wrist,  "I  owe  you 
an  apology.  I  had  no  idea  anyone  was  opposite 
me." 

If  I  was  a  surprise  to  him,  he  was  doubly  so 
to  me. 

243 


THE    UNDER   DOG 

My  picture  had  vanished. 

He  was  sixty-five,  if  a  day;  gray,  with  bushy 
eyebrows,  piercing  brown  eyes,  heavy,  well- 
trimmed  mustache,  strong  chin  and  nose,  with 
fine  determined  lines  about  the  mouth.  A  man  in 
perfect  health,  his  full  throat  browned  with  many 
weathers  showing  above  a  low  collar  caught  to 
gether  by  a  loose  black  cravat — a  handsome, 
rather  dashing  sort  of  a  man  for  one  so  old. 

"I  say  it  is  a  shame,  sir,"  he  continued,  "the 
way  they  are  lynching  the  negroes  around  here. 
Have  you  read  the  Extra  ?"  passing  it  over  to  me 
— "Another  this  morning  at  Cramptown.  It's  an 
infernal  outrage,  sir!" 

I  had  read  the  "Extra,"  with  all  its  sickening 
details,  and  so  handed  it  back  to  him. 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,"  I  said ;  "but  this  man 
was  a  brute." 

"No  doubt  of  it,  sir.  We've  got  brutal  negroes 
among  us,  just  as  we've  got  brutal  white  men. 
But  that's  no  reason  why  we  should  hang  them 
without  a  trial;  we  still  owe  them  that  justice. 
When  we  dealt  fairly  with  them  there  was  never 
any  such  trouble.  There  were  hundreds  of  plan 
tations  in  the  South  during  the  war  where  the 
only  men  left  were  negroes.  We  trusted  our  wives 
and  children  to  them ;  and  yet  such  outrages  as 
these  were  unheard  of  and  absolutely  impossible. 
I  don't  expect  you  to  agree  with  me,  of  course; 
244 


SAMMY 

but  I  tell  you,  sir,  the  greatest  injustice  the  North 
ever  did  the  slave  was  in  robbing  him  of  his  home. 
I  am  going  to  have  a  smoke  before  going  to  bed. 
Won't  you  join  me?" 

Acquaintances  are  quickly  made  and  as  quickly 
ended  in  a  Pullman.  Men's  ways  lie  in  such  di 
verse  directions,  and  the  hours  of  contact  are  often 
so  short,  that  no  one  can  afford  to  be  either  un 
gracious  or  exclusive.  The  "buttoned-up"  misses 
the  best  part  of  travelling.  He  is  like  a  camera 
with  the  cap  on — he  never  gets  a  new  impression. 
The  man  with  the  shutters  of  his  ears  thrown  wide 
and  the  lids  of  his  eyes  tied  back  gets  a  new  one 
every  hour. 

If,  in  addition  to  this,  he  wears  the  lens  of  his 
heart  upon  his  sleeve,  and  will  adjust  it  so  as  to 
focus  the  groups  around  him — it  may  be  a  pair  of 
lovers,  or  some  tired  mother,  or  happy  child,  or 
lonely  wayfarer,  or  a  waif — he  will  often  get  a 
picture  of  joy,  or  sorrow,  or  hope — life  dramas  all 
— which  will  not  only  enrich  the  dull  hours  of 
travel,  but  will  leave  imprints  on  the  mind  which 
can  be  developed  later  into  the  richest  and  ten- 
derest  memories  of  his  life. 

I  have  a  way  of  arranging  my  own  sensitized 
plates,  and  I  get  a  certain  amount  of  entertain 
ment  out  of  the  process,  and  now  and  then  a  Rem 
brandt  effect  whose  lights  and  darks  often  thrill 
me  for  days. 

So  when  this  unknown  man,  with  his  young  legs 
245 


THE    UNDER   DOG 

and  his  old  face,  asked  me,  on  one  minute's  ac 
quaintance,  to  smoke,  I  accepted  at  once. 

"I  am  right  about  it,  my  dear  sir,"  he  contin 
ued,  biting  off  the  end  of  a  cigar  and  sharing  with 
me  the  lighted  match.  "The  negro  is  infinitely 
worse  off  than  in  the  slave  days.  We  never  had  to 
hang  any  one  of  them  then  to  make  the  others  be 
have  themselves." 

"How  do  you  account  for  it  ?"  I  asked,  settling 
myself  in  my  chair.  (We  were  alone  in  the  smok 
ing  compartment.) 

"Account  for  what  ?" 

"The  change  that  has  come  over  the  South — 
to  the  negro,"  I  answered. 

"The  negro  has  become  a  competitor,  sir.  The 
interests  of  the  black  man  and  the  white  man  now 
lie  apart.  Once  the  white  man  was  his  friend; 
now  he  is  his  rival." 

His  eyes  were  boring  into  mine;  his  teeth  set 
tight. 

The  doctrine  was  new  to  me,  but  I  did  not  inter 
rupt  him. 

"It  wasn't  so  in  the  old  days.  We  shared  what 
we  had  with  them.  One-third  of  the  cabins  of 
the  South  were  filled  with  the  old  and  helpless. 
Now  these  unfortunates  are  out  in  the  cold ;  their 
own  people  can't  help  them,  and  the  white  man 
won't." 

"Were  you  a  slave-owner?"  I  asked,  not  wish 
ing  to  dispute  the  point. 

246 


SAMMY 

"Ko,  sir;  but  my  father  was.  He  had  fifty  of 
them  on  our  plantation.  He  never  whipped  one 
of  them,  and  he  wouldn't  let  anybody  else  strike 
them,  either.  There  wasn't  one  of  them  that 
wouldn't  have  come  back  if  we  had  had  a  place  to 
put  him.  The  old  ones  are  all  dead  now,  thank 
God ! — all  except  old  Aleck ;  he's  around  yet." 

"One  of  your  father's  slaves,  did  you  say  ?" 

I  was  tapping  away  at  the  door  of  his  recollec 
tions,  camera  all  ready. 

"Yes ;  he  carried  me  about  on  his  back  when  I 
was  so  high,"  and  he  measured  the  distance  with 
his  hand.  "Aleck  and  I  were  boys  together.  I 
was  about  eight  and  he  about  fifteen  when  my 
father  got  him." 

My  companion  paused,  drumming  on  the  leather 
covering  of  his  chair.     I  waited,  hoping  he  would  t 
at  least  open  his  door  wide  enough  to  give  me  a 
glimpse  inside. 

"Curiously  enough,"  he  went  on,  "I've  been 
thinking  of  Aleck  all  day.  I  heard  yesterday  that 
he  was  sick  again,  and  it  has  worried  me  a  good 
deal.  He's  pretty  feeble  now,  and  I  don't  know 
how  long  he'll  last." 

He  flicked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar,  nursing  his 
knee  with  the  other  hand.  The  leg  must  have 
pained  him,  for  I  noticed  that  he  lifted  it  care 
fully  and  moved  it  on  one  side,  as  if  for  greater 
relief. 

"Rheumatism  ?"  I  ventured,  sympathetically. 
247 


THE   UNDEK   DOG 

"No ;  just  gets  that  way  sometimes,"  he  replied, 
carelessly.  "But  Aleck's  got  it  bad;  can  hardly 
walk.  Last  time  I  saw  him  he  was  about  bent 
double." 

Again  he  relapsed  into  silence,  smoking 
quietly. 

"And  you  tell  me,"  I  said,  "that  this  old  slave 
was  loyal  to  your  family  after  his  freedom  ?" 

He  hadn't  told  me  anything  of  the  kind;  but 
I  had  found  his  key-hole  now,  and  was  determined 
to  get  inside  his  door,  even  if  I  picked  the  lock 
with  a  skeleton-key. 

"Aleck!"  he  cried,  rousing  himself  with  a 
laugh;  "well,  I  should  say  so!  Anybody  would 
be  loyal  who'd  been  treated  as  my  father  treated 
Aleck.  He  took  him  out  of  jail  and  gave  him  a 
home,  and  would  have  looked  after  him  till  he 
died  if  the  war  hadn't  broken  out.  Aleck  wasn't 
raised  on  our  plantation.  He  was  a  runaway  from 
North  Carolina.  There  were  three  of  them  that 
got  across  the  river — a  man  and  his  wife  and 
Aleck.  The  slave-driver  had  caught  Aleck  in  our 
town  and  had  locked  him  up  in  the  caboose  for 
safe-keeping.  Then  he  came  to  my  father  to  help 
him  catch  the  other  two.  But  my  father  wasn't 
that  kind  of  a  man.  The  old  gentleman  had 
curious  notions  about  a  good  many  things.  He 
believed  when  a  slave  ran  away  that  the  fault  was 
oftener  the  master's  than  the  negro's.  'They  are 
nothing  but  children,'  he  would  say,  'and  you 
248 


SAMMY 

must  treat  them  like  children.  Whipping  is  a 
poor  way  to  bring  anybody  up.' 

"So  when  my  father  heard  about  the  three  run 
aways  he  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
case.  This  made  the  driver  anxious. 

"  'Judge/  he  said — my  father  had  been  a  Judge 
of  the  County  Court  for  years — 'if  you'll  take  the 
case  I'll  give  you  this  boy  Aleck  as  a  fee.  He's 
worth  a  thousand  dollars.' 

"  'Send  for  him,'  said  my  father.  'I'll  tell  you 
when  I  see  him.' 

"So  they  brought  him  in.  He  was  a  big,  strong 
boy,  with  powerful  shoulders,  black  as  a  chunk  of 
coal,  and  had  a  look  about  him  that  made  you  trust 
him  at  first  sight.  My  father  believed  in  him  the 
moment  he  saw  him. 

"  'What  did  you  run  away  for,  Aleck  ?'  he 
asked. 

"The  boy  held  his  head  down. 

"  'My  mother  died,  Marster,  an'  I  couldn't  stay 
dar  no  mo'.' 

"  'I'll  take  him,'  said  my  father ;  'but  on  con 
dition  that  the  boy  wants  to  live  with  me.' 

"This  was  another  one  of  the  old  gentleman's 
notions.  He  wouldn't  have  a  negro  on  the  place 
that  he  had  to  watch,  nor  one  that  wasn't  happy. 

"The  driver  opened  his  eyes  and  laughed;  but 
my  father  meant  what  he  said,  and  the  papers 
were  made  out  on  those  terms.  The  boy  was  out 
side  in  charge  of  the  Sheriff  while  the  papers  were 
249 


THE    UNDER   DOG 

being  drawn,  and  when  they  were  signed  the 
driver  brought  him  in  and  said : 

"  'He's  your  property,  Judge.' 

"  'Aleck,'  father  said,  'you've  heard  ?' 

"  'Yes,  sab.' 

"The  boy  stood  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  He 
thought  he  was  going  to  get  a  life-sentence.  He 
had  never  faced  a  judge  before. 

"  'Well,  you're  my  property  now,  and  I've  got 
a  proposition  to  make  to  you.  There's  my  horse 
outside  hitched  to  that  post.  Get  on  him  and  ride 
out  to  my  plantation,  two  miles  from  here;  any- 
body'll  tell  you  where  it  is.  Talk  to  my  negroes 
around  the  quarters,  and  then  go  over  to  Mr. 
Shandon's  and  talk  to  his  negroes — find  out  from 
any  one  of  them  what  kind  of  a  master  I  am,  and 
then  come  back  to  me  here  before  sundown  and  tell 
me  if  you  want  to  live  with  me.  If  you  don't 
want  to  live  with  me  you  can  go  free.  Do  you 
understand  ?' 

"My  father  said  it  all  over  again.  Aleck  looked 
at  the  driver,  then  at  the  Sheriff,  and  then  at  my 
father.  Then  he  crept  out  of  the  room,  got  on 
the  mare,  and  rode  up  the  pike. 

"  'You've  thrown  your  money  away,'  said  the 
driver,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  'You'll  never 
see  that  nigger  again.' 

"The  Sheriff  laughed,  and  they  both  went  out. 
Father  said  nothing  and  waited.  About  an  hour 
before  sundown  back  came  Aleck.  Father  always 
250 


said  lie  never  saw  a  man  change  so  in  four  hours. 
He  went  out  crouching  like  a  dog,  his  face  over 
his  shoulder,  scared  to  death,  and  he  came  back 
with  his  head  up  and  a  snap  in  his  eye,  looking 
as  if  he  could  whip  his  weight  in  wildcats. 

"  'I'll  go  wid  ye,  an'  thank  ye  all  my  life/  was 
all  he  said. 

"Well,  it  got  out  around  the  village,  and  that 
night  the  other  two  runaways — the  man  and  wife 
— they  were  hiding  in  the  town — gave  themselves 
up,  and  one  of  our  neighbors  bought  them  both 
and  set  them  to  work  on  a  plantation  next  to  ours, 
and  the  driver  went  away  happy. 

"I  was  a  little  fellow  then,  running  around 
barefooted,  but  I  remember  meeting  Aleck  just  as 
if  it  were  yesterday.  He  was  holding  the  horse 
while  my  father  and  the  overseer  stood  talking  on 
one  side.  They  were  planning  his  work  and  where 
he  should  sleep.  I  crept  up  to  look  at  him.  I 
had  heard  he  was  coming  and  that  he  was  a 
runaway  slave.  I  thought  his  back  would  be 
bloody  and  all  cut  to  pieces,  and  that  he'd  have 
chains  on  him,  and  I  was  disappointed  because  I 
couldn't  see  his  skin  through  his  shirt  and  because 
his  hands  were  free.  I  must  have  gotten  too  near 
the  mare,  for  before  I  knew  it  he  had  lifted  me 
out  of  danger. 

"  'What's  your  name  ?'  I  asked. 

"  'Aleck/  he  said ;  'an'  what's  your  name,  young 
marster  ?' 

251 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

"  'Sammy,'  I  said. 

"That's  the  way  it  began  between  us,  and  it's 
kept  on  ever  since.  I  call  him  'Aleck/  and  he 
calls  me  'Sammy' — never  anything  else,  even  to- 
day." 

"He  calls  you  'Sammy' !"  I  said,  in  astonish 
ment.  The  familiarity  was  new  to  me  between 
master  and  slave. 

"Yes,  always.  There  isn't  another  person  in 
the  world  now  that  calls  me  'Sammy,'  "  he  an 
swered,  with  a  tremor  in  his  voice. 

My  travelling-companion  stopped  for  a  moment, 
cleared  his  throat,  drew  a  silver  match-safe 
from  his  pocket,  relighted  his  cigar,  and  con 
tinued. 

"The  overseer  put  Aleck  to  ploughing  the  old 
orchard  that  lay  between  the  quarters  and  the 
house.  I  sneaked  out  to  watch  him  as  a  curious 
child  would,  still  intent  on  seeing  his  wounds. 
Soon  as  Aleck  saw  me,  he  got  a  board  and  nailed 
it  on  the  plough  close  to  the  handle  for  a  seat, 
and  tied  up  the  old  horse's  tail  so  it  wouldn't 
switch  in  my  face,  and  put  me  on  it,  and  I  never 
left  that  plough  till  sundown.  My  father  asked 
Aleck  where  he  had  learned  that  trick,  and  Aleck 
told  him  he  used  to  take  his  little  brother  that 
way  before  he  died. 

"After  the  orchard  was  ploughed  Aleck  didn't 
do  a  thing  but  look  after  me.    We  fished  together 
and  went  swimming  together ;  and  we  hunted  eggs 
252 


and  trapped  rabbits;  and  when  I  got  older  and 
had  a  gun  Aleck  would  go  along  to  look  after  the 
dogs  and  cut  down  the  trees  when  we  were  out  for 
coons. 

"Once  I  tumbled  into  a  catfish-hole  by  the  dam, 
and  he  fished  me  out;  and  once,  while  he  had 
crawled  in  after  a  woodchuck,  a  rock  slipped  and 
pinned  him  down,  and  I  ran  two  miles  to  get  help, 
and  fell  in  a  faint  before  I  could  tell  them  where 
he  was.  What  Aleck  had  in  those  days  I  had,  and 
what  I  had  he  had;  and  there  was  no  difference 
between  us  till  the  war  broke  out. 

"I  was  grown  then,  and  Aleck  was  six  or  seven 
years  older.  We  were  on  the  border-line,  and  one 
morning  the  Union  soldiers  opened  fire,  and  all 
that  was  left  of  the  house,  barns,  outbuildings,  and 
negro  quarters  was  a  heap  of  ashes. 

"That  sent  me  South,  of  course,  feeling  pretty 
ugly  and  bitter,  and  I  don't  know  that  I've  gotten 
over  it  since.  My  father  was  too  old  to  go,  and  he 
and  my  mother  moved  into  the  village  and  lived 
in  two  rooms  over  my  father's  office.  The  negroes, 
of  course,  had  to  shift  for  themselves,  and  hard 
shifting  it  was — the  women  and  children  herding 
in  the  towns  and  the  men  working  as  teamsters 
and  doing  what  they  could. 

"The  night  before  I  left  home  Aleck  crawled 

out  to  see  me.     I  was  hidden  in  a  hayrick  in  the 

lower  pasture.     He  begged  me  to  let  him  go  with 

me,  but  I  knew  father  would  want  him,  and  he 

253 


THE    UNDER   DOG 

finally  gave  in  and  promised  to  stay  with  him,  and 
I  left.  But  no  one  was  his  own  master  in  those 
days,  and  in  a  few  months  they  had  drafted  Aleck 
and  carried  him  off. 

"Three  years  after  that  my  mother  fell  ill,  and 
I  heard  of  it  and  came  back  in  disguise,  and  was 
arrested  as  a  suspicious  character  as  I  entered  the 
town.  I  didn't  blame  them,  for  I  looked  like  a 
tramp  and  intended  to.  The  next  day  I  was  let 
out  and  went  home  to  where  my  mother  and  father 
were  living.  As  I  was  opening  the  garden-gate — 
it  was  night — Aleck  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 
He  had  on  the  uniform  of  a  United  States  soldier. 
I  couldn't  believe  my  eyes  at  first.  I  had  lost 
track  of  him,  and,  as  I  found  out  afterward,  so 
had  my  father.  We  stood  under  the  street-lamp 
and  he  saw  the  look  in  my  face  and  threw  his 
hands  up  over  his  head  as  a  negro  does  when  some 
sudden  shock  comes  to  him. 

"  'Don't  turn  away  f 'om  me,  Sammy,'  he  cried ; 
'please  don't,  Sammy.  'Tain't  my  fault  I  got  on 
dese  clo'es,  'deed  it  ain't.  Dey  done  fo'ced  me. 
I  heared  you  was  here  an'  I  been  tryin'  to  git  to 
ye  all  day.  Oh,  I  so  glad  to  git  hold  ob  ye,  Sam 
my,  so  glad,  so  glad.'  He  broke  out  into  sobs  of 
crying.  I  was  near  it  myself,  for  he  was  the  first 
one  from  home  I  had  seen,  and  there  was  some 
thing  in  his  voice  that  went  through  me. 

"Then  he  unbuttoned  his  coat,  felt  in  his 
pocket,  pushed  something  into  my  hand,  and  dis- 
254 


SAMMY 

appeared  in  the  darkness.  When  I  got  inside  and 
held  it  out  to  the  light,  he  had  given  me  two  five- 
dollar  greenbacks ! 

"I  was  sitting  by  my  mother  the  next  night 
about  ten  o'clock — she  wouldn't  let  me  out  of  her 
sight — when  there  came  a  rap  at  the  door  and 
Aleck  came  in.  I  knew  how  my  father  would  feel 
about  seeing  him  in  those  clothes.  I  didn't  know 
till  afterward  that  they  were  all  he  had  and  that 
the  poor  fellow  was  as  bad  off  as  any  of  us. 

"Father  opened  upon  Aleck  right  away,  just  as 
I  knew  he  would,  without  giving  him  a  chance  to 
speak.  He  upbraided  him  for  going  into  the 
Army,  told  him  to  take  his  money  back,  and 
showed  him  the  door.  The  old  gentleman  could  be 
pretty  savage  when  he  wanted  to,  and  he  didn't 
spare  Aleck  a  bit.  Aleck  never  said  a  word — just 
listened  to  my  father's  abuse  of  him — his  hands 
folded  over  his  cap,  his  eyes  on  the  two  bills  lying 
on  the  table  where  my  father  had  thrown  them. 
Then  he  said,  slowly: 

"  'Marse  Henry,  I  done  hearn  ye  every  word. 
You  don't  want  me  here  no  mo',  an'  I'm  gwine 
away.  I  ain't  a-fightin'  agin  you  an'  Sammy  an' 
neber  will — it's  'cause  I  couldn't  help  it  dat  I'm 
wearin'  dese  clo'es.  As  to  dis  money  dat  you 
won't  let  Sammy  take,  it's  mine  to  gib  'cause  I 
saved  it  up.  I  gin  it  to  Sammy  'cause  I  fetched 
him  up  an'  'cause  he's  as  much  mine  as  he  is 
your'n.  He'll  tell  ye  so  same's  me.  If  you  say 
255 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

I  got  to  take  dat  money  back  I  got  to  do  it  'cause 
I  ain't  neber  dis'beyed  ye  an'  I  ain't  gwine  to 
begin  now.  But  I  don't  want  yer  ter  say  it,  Marse 
Henry — I  don't  want  yer  to  say  it.  You  is  my 
marster  I  know,  but  Sammy  is  my  chile.  An' 
anudder  thing,  dey  ain't  gwine  to  let  him  stay  in 
dis  town  more'n  a  day.  I  found  dat  out  yisterday 
when  I  heared  he'd  come.  Dar  ain't  no  money 
whar  he's  gwine,  an'  dis  money  ain't  nothin'  to 
me  'cause  I  kin  git  mo'  an'  maybe  Sammy  can't. 
Please,  Marse  Henry,  let  Sammy  keep  dis  money. 
Dere  didn't  useter  be  no  diff'ence  'tween  us,  and 
dere  oughtn't  to  be  none  now.' 

"My  father  didn't  speak  again — he  hadn't  the 
heart,  and  Aleck  went  out,  leaving  the  money  on 
the  table." 

Again  my  companion  stopped  and  fumbled  over 
the  matches  in  his  safe,  striking  one  or  two  ner 
vously  and  relighting  his  cigar.  It  was  astonish 
ing  how  often  it  went  out.  I  sat  with  my  eyes 
riveted  on  his  face.  I  could  see  now  the  lines  of 
tenderness  about  his  mouth  and  I  caught  certain 
cadences  in  his  voice  which  revealed  to  me  but  too 
clearly  why  the  negro  loved  him  and  why  he  must 
always  be  only  a  boy  to  the  old  slave.  The  cigar 
a-light,  he  went  on : 

"When  the  war  closed  I  came  home  and  began 
to  pick  up  my  life  again.  Aleck  had  gone  to  Wis 
consin  and  was  living  in  the  same  town  as  young 
Cruger,  one  of  my  father's  law-students.  WTien 
256 


my  father  died,  I  telegraphed  Cruger,  inviting  him 
to  serve  as  one  of  the  pall-bearers,  and  asked  him 
to  find  Aleck  and  tell  him.  I  knew  he  would  be 
hurt  if  I  didn't  let  him  know. 

"At  two  o'clock  that  night  my  niece,  who  was 
with  my  mother,  rapped  at  my  door.  I  was  sitting 
up  with  my  father's  body  and  would  go  down 
every  hour  to  see  that  everything  was  all  right 

"  "There's  a  man  trying  to  get  in  at  the  front 
door,'  she  said.  I  got  up  at  once  and  went  down 
stairs.  I  could  see  the  outlines  of 'a  man's  figure 
moving  in  the  darkness,  but  I  could  not  distin 
guish  the  features. 

"  'Who  is  it  V  I  asked,  throwing  open  the  door 
and  peering  out. 

"  'It's  me,  Sammy — it's  Aleck.  Take  me  to  my 
ole  marster.' 

"He  came  in  and  stood  where  the  light  fell  full 
upon  him.  I  hardly  knew  him,  he  was  so  changed 
— much  older  and  bent,  and  his  clothes  hung  on 
him  in  rags. 

"I  pointed  to  the  parlor-door,  and  the  old  man 
went  on  tip-toe  into  the  room  and  stood  looking 
at  my  father's  dead  face  for  a  long  time — the  body 
lay  on  a  cot.  Then  he  placed  his  hat  on  the  floor 
and  got  down  on  his  knees.  There  was  just  light 
enough  to  see  his  figure  black  against  the  white  of 
the  sheet  that  covered  the  cot.  For  some  minutes 
he  knelt  motionless,  as  if  in  prayer,  though  no 
sound  escaped  him.  Then  he  stretched  out  his  big 
257 


THE    UNDEK   DOG 

black  hand  and  passed  it  over  the  body,  smoothing 
it  gently  and  patting  it  tenderly  as  one  would  a 
sleeping  child.  By  and  by  he  leaned  closer  to  my 
father's  face. 

"  'Marse  Henry/  I  heard  him  say,  'please, 
Marse  Henry,  listen.  Dis  yere's  Aleck.  Yer 
wouldn't  hear  me  the  las'  time  but  yer  got  ter  hear 
me  now.  It's  yo'  Aleck,  Marster,  dat's  who  it  is. 
I  come  soon's  I  could,  Marse  Henry,  I  didn't  wait 
a  minute.'  He  stopped  as  if  expecting  an  answer, 
and  went  on.  'I  ain't  neber  laid  up  nothin'  agin 
ye  though,  Marse  Henry.  When  ye  turned  me 
out  dat  night  in  the  col'  'cause  I  had  dem  soger 
clo'es  on  an'  didn't  want  me  to  gin  dat  money  to 
Sammy,  I  knowed  how  yer  felt,  but  I  didn't  lay  it 
up  agin  ye.  I  ain't  neber  loved  nobody  like  I 
loved  you,  Marse  Henry,  you  an'  Sammy.  Do  yer 
'member  when  I  fust  come  ?  'Member  how  ye  tuk 
me  out  o'  jail,  an'  gin  me  a  home  ?  'Member  how 
ye  nussed  me  when  I  was  sick,  an'  fed  me  when  I 
was  hongry,  an'  put  clo'es  on  me  when  I  was  most 
naked  ?  Nobody  neber  trusted  me  with  nothin'  till 
you  trusted  me,  dey  jus'  beat  me  an'  hunt  me. 
An'  don't  yer  'member,  Marse  Henry,  de  time  ye 
gin  me  Sammy  an'  tol'  me  to  take  care  on  him? 
you  ain't  forgot  dat  day,  is  yer  ?  He's  here,  Mars 
ter;  Sammy's  here.  He's  settin'  outside  a-watch- 
in'.  Him  an'  me  togedder,  same's  we  useter  was.' 

"He  got  upon  his  feet,  and  looked  earnestly  into 
the  dead  face.  Then  he  bent  down  and  picked  up 
258 


I  hardly  knew  him,  he  was  so  changed. 


SAMMY 

one  corner  of  the  white  sheet,  and  kissed  it  rever 
ently.  He  did  not  touch  the  face.  When  he  had 
tiptoed  out  of  the  room,  he  laid  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder.  The  tears  were  streaming  down  his 
face: 

"  'It  was  jes'  like  ye,  Sammy,  to  send  fo'  me. 
We  knows  one  anudder,  you  an'  me — '  and  he 
turned  toward  the  front  door. 

"  ' Where  are  you  going,  Aleck  ?'  I  asked. 

"  'I  dunno,  Sammy — some  place  whar  I  kin  lay 
down.' 

"  'You  don't  leave  here  to-night,  Aleck,'  I  said. 
'Go  upstairs  to  that  room  next  to  mine — you  know 
where  it  is — and  get  into  that  bed.'  He  held  up 
his  hand  and  began  to  say  he  couldn't,  but  I  in 
sisted. 

"The  next  morning  was  Sunday.  I  saw  when 
he  came  downstairs  that  he  had  done  the  best  he 
could  with  his  clothes,  but  they  were  still  pretty 
ragged.  I  asked  him  if  he  had  brought  any  others, 
but  he  told  me  they  were  all  he  had.  I  didn't  say 
anything  at  the  time,  but  that  afternoon  I  took  him 
to  a  clothing  store,  had  it  opened  as  a  favor  to  me, 
and  fitted  him  out  with  a  suit  of  black,  and  a  shirt, 
and  shoes  and  a  hat — everything  he  wanted — and 
got  him  a  carpet-bag,  and  told  Abraham,  the 
clothier,  to  put  Aleck's  old  things  into  it,  and  he 
would  call  for  them  the  next  day. 

"When  we  got  outside,  Aleck  looked  himself  all 
over — along  his  sleeves,  over  his  waistcoat,  and 
259 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

down  to  his  shoes.  He  seemed  to  be  thinking  about 
something.  He  would  start  to  speak  to  me  and 
stop  and  look  over  his  clothes  again,  testing  the 
quality  with  his  fingers.  Finally  he  laid  his  hand 
on  my  arm,  and,  with  a  curious,  beseeching  look 
in  his  eyes,  said: 

"  'Sammy,  all  yesterday,  when  I  was  a-comin', 
I  was  a-studyin'  about  it,  an'  I  couldn't  git  it  out'n 
my  mind.  It  come  to  me  agin  when  I  saw  Marse 
Henry  las'  night,  an'  I  wanted  to  tell  him.  But 
when  I  got  up  dis  mawnin'  an'  see  myself  I 
knowed  I  couldn't  ask  ye,  Sammy,  an'  I  didn't. 
Now  I  got  dese  clo'es,  it's  come  to  me  agin.  I  kin 
ask  ye  now,  an'  I  don't  want  ye  to  'fuse  me.  I 
want  ye  to  let  me  drive  my  marster's  body  to  de 
grave.' 

"I  held  out  my  hand,  and  for  an  instant  neither 
of  us  spoke. 

"  'Thank  ye,  Sammy,'  was  all  he  said." 

Again  my  companion's  voice  broke.  Then  he 
went  on : 

"When  the  carriages  formed  in  line  I  saw  Aleck 
leaning  against  the  fence,  and  the  undertaker's 
man  was  on  the  hearse.  I  caught  Aleck's  eye  and 
beckoned  to  him. 

"  'What's  the  matter,  Aleck  ?  Why  aren't  you 
on  the  hearse  ?' 

"  'De  undertaker  man  wouldn't  let  me,  Sam 
my;  an'  I  didn't  like  to  'sturb  you  an'  de 
mistis.' 

260 


SAMMY 

"The  tears  stood  in  his  eyes, 

"  'Go  find  him  and  bring  him  to  me/  I  said. 

"When  he  came  I  told  him  the  funeral  would 
stop  where  it  was  if  he  didn't  carry  out  my 
orders. 

"He  said  there  was  some  mistake,  though  I 
didn't  believe  it,  and  went  off  with  Aleck.  Aa 
we  turned  out  of  the  gate  and  into  the  road  I 
caught  sight  of  the  hearse,  Aleck  on  the  box.  He 
sat  bolt  upright,  head  erect,  the  reins  in  one  hand, 
the  whip  resting  on  his  knee,  as  I  had  seen  him 
do  so  often  when  driving  my  father — grave,  dig 
nified,  and  thoughtful,  speaking  to  the  horses  in 
low  tones,  the  hearse  moving  and  stopping  as  each 
carriage  would  be  filled  and  driven  ah  pad. 

"He  wouldn't  drive  the  hearse  back;  left  it 
standing  at  the  gate  of  the  cemetery.  I  heard  the 
discussion,  but  I  couldn't  leave  my  mother  to 
settle  it. 

"  'I  ain't  gwine  to  do  it,'  I  heard  him  say  to 
the  undertaker.  'It  was  my  marster  I  was  'tendin* 
on,  not  yo'  horses.  You  can  drive  'em  home  yo'- 
self.'  " 

My  companion  settled  himself  in  his  chair, 
rested  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  closed  his  eyes. 
I  remained  silent,  watching  him.  His  cigar  had 
gone  out;  so  had  mine.  Once  or  twice  a  slight 
quiver  crossed  his  lips,  then  his  teeth  would  close 
tight,  and  again  his  face  would  relapse  into  calm 
impassiveness. 

261 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

At  this  instant  the  curtains  of  the  smoking-room 
parted  and  the  Pullman  porter  entered. 

"Your  berth's  all  ready,  Major,"  said  the 
porter. 

My  companion  rose  from  his  chair,  straightened 
his  leg,  held  out  his  hand,  and  said: 

"You  can  understand  now,  sir,  how  I  feel  about 
these  continued  outrages.  I  don't  mean  to  say 
that  every  man  is  like  Aleck,  but  I  do  mean  to  say 
that  Aleck  would  never  have  been  as  loyal  as  he 
is  but  for  the  way  my  father  brought  him  up. 
Good-night,  sir." 

He  was  gone  before  I  could  do  more  than  ex 
press  my  thanks  for  his  confidence.  It  was  just  as 
well — any  further  word  of  mine  would  have  been 
superfluous.  Even  lay  thanks  seemed  out  of 
place. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  porter  returned  with, 
"Lower  Four's  all  ready,  sir." 

"All  right,  I'm  coming.     Oh,  porter." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Porter,  come  closer.  Who  is  that  gentleman 
Pve  been  talking  to  ?" 

"That's  Major  Sam  Garnett,  sir." 

"Was  he  in  the  war  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  he  was,  for  a  fact.     He  was  in  de 

Cavalry,  sir,  one  o'  Morgan's  Raiders.   Got  more'n 

six  bullets  in  him  now.     I  jes'  done  helped  him 

off  wid  his  wooden  leg.     It  was  cut  off  below  de 

262 


knee.  His  old  man  Aleck  most  generally  takes 
care  of  dat  leg.  He  didn't  come  wid  him  dis  trip. 
But  he'll  be  on  de  platform  in  de  mornin'  a-waitin* 
for  him." 


263 


MARNY'S   SHADOW 


MARNY'S   SHADOW 

If  you  know  the  St.  Nicholas — and  if  you  don't 
you  should  make  its  acquaintance  at  once — you 
won't  breakfast  upstairs  in  that  gorgeous  room 
overlooking  the  street  where  immaculate,  smileless 
waiters  move  noiselessly  about,  limp  palms  droop 
in  the  corners,  and  the  tables  are  lighted  with  imi 
tation  wax  candles  burning  electric  wicks  hooded 
by  ruby-colored  shades,  but  you  will  stumble  down 
a  dark,  crooked  staircase  to  the  left  of  the  office- 
desk,  push  open  a  swinging,  green  baize  door 
studded  with  brass  tacks,  pass  a  corner  of  the  bar 
resplendent  in  cut  glass,  and  with  lowered  head  slip 
into  a  little  box  of  a  place  built  under  the  side 
walk. 

Here  of  an  afternoon  thirsty  gentlemen  sip  their 
cocktails  or  sit  talking  by  the  hour,  the  smoke  from 
their  cigars  drifting  in  long  lines  out  the  open  door 
leading  to  the  bar,  and  into  the  caffe  beyond.  Here 
in  the  morning  hungry  habitues  take  their  first 
meal — those  whose,  life-tickets  are  punched  with 
much  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  who,  therefore, 
know  how  much  shorter  is  the  distance  from  where 
they  sit  to  the  chef's  charcoal  fire. 

Marny  has  one  of  these  same  ragged  life-ticketa 
267 


THE   TTNDEK   DOG 

"bearing  punch-marks  made  the  world  over,  and  so 
whenever  I  journey  his  way  we  always  breakfast 
together  in  this  cool,  restful  retreat,  especially  of  a 
Sunday  morning. 

On  one  of  these  mornings,  the  first  course  had 
been  brought  and  eaten,  the  cucumbers  and  a 
special  mysterious  dish  served,  and  I  was  about  to 
light  a  cigarette — we  were  entirely  alone — when  a 
well-dressed  man  pushed  open  the  door,  leaned  for 
a  moment  against  the  jamb,  peered  into  the  room, 
retreated,  appeared  again,  caught  sight  of  Marny, 
and  settled  himself  in  a  chair  with  his  eyes  on  the 
painter. 

I  wondered  if  he  were  a  friend  of  Marny's,  or 
whether  he  had  only  been  attracted  by  that  glow 
of  geniality  which  seems  to  radiate  from  Marny's 
pores. 

The  intruder  differed  but  little  in  his  manner 
of  approach  from  other  strangers  I  had  seen  hover 
ing  about  my  friend,  but  to  make  sure  of  his 
identity — the  painter  had  not  yet  noticed  the  man 
— I  sent  Marny  a  Marconi  message  of  inquiry  with 
my  eyebrows,  which  he  answered  in  the  negative 
with  his  shoulders. 

The  stranger  must  have  read  its  meaning,  for 
he  rose  quickly,  and,  with  an  embarrassed  look  on 
his  face,  left  the  room. 

"Wanted  a  quarter,  perhaps,"  I  suggested,, 
laughing. 

"Xo,  guess  not.  He's  just  a  Diffendorfer.  Al- 
268 


MARNY'S    SHADOW 

ways  some  of  them  round  Sunday  mornings. 
That's  a  new  one,  never  saw  him  before.  In  town 
over  night,  perhaps." 

"What's  a  Diffendorfer?" 

"Did  you  never  meet  one?" 

"No,  never  heard  of  one." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have;  you've  seen  lots  of  them." 

"Do  they  belong  to  any  sect?" 

"What  are  they,  then?" 

"Just  Diffendorfers.  Thought  I'd  told  you 
about  one  whom  I  knew.  No?  Wait  till  I  light 
my  cigar;  it's  a  long  story." 

"Anything  to  do  with  the  fellow  who's  just 
gone  out?" 

"Not  a  thing,  though  I'm  sure  he's  one  of 
them.  You'll  find  Diffendorfers  everywhere. 
First  one  I  struck  was  in  Venice,  some  years  ago. 
I  can  pick  them  out  now  at  sight."  Marny  struck 
a  match  and  lighted  his  cigar.  I  drew  my  cup  of 
coffee  toward  me  and  settled  myself  in  my  chair 
to  listen. 

"You  remember  that  little  smoking-room  to  the 
right  as  you  enter  the  Gaffe  Quadri,"  he  began; 
"the  one  off  the  piazza?  Well,  a  lot  of  us  fellows 
used  to  dine  there — Whistler,  Rico,  Old  Ziem, 
Roscoff,  Fildes,  Blaas,  and  the  rest  of  the  gang. 

"Jimmy  was  making  his  marvellous  pastels  that 
year"  (it  is  in  this  irreverent  way  that  Marny 
often  speaks  of  the  gods),  "and  we  used  to  crowd 
269 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

into  the  little  room  every  night  to  look  them  over, 
We  were  an  enthusiastic  lot  of  Bohemians,  each 
one  with  an  opinion  of  his  own  about  any  subject 
he  happened  to  be  interested  in,  and  ready  to  back 
it  up  if  it  took  all  night.  "Whistler's  pastels,  how 
ever,  took  the  wind  out  of  some  of  us  who  thought 
we  could  paint,  especially  Roscoff,  who  prided 
himself  on  his  pastels,  and  who  has  never  forgiven 
Jimmy  to  this  day. 

"Well,  one  night,  Auguste,  the  head-waiter — 
you  remember  him,  he  used  to  get  smuggled  cigar 
ettes  for  us;  that  made  him  suspicious;  always 
thought  everybody  was  a  spy — pointed  out  a  man 
sitting  just  outside  the  room  on  one  of  the  leather- 
covered  seats.  Auguste  said  he  came  every  even 
ing  and  got  as  close  as  he  could  to  our  table  with 
out  attracting  attention;  close  enough,  however,  to 
hear  every  word  that  was  said.  If  I  knew  the  man 
it  was  all  right ;  if  I  didn't  know  him,  he  suggested 
that  I  keep  an  eye  on  him. 

"I  looked  around,  and  saw  a  heavy-featured, 
dull-looking  man  about  twenty-five,  dressed  in  a 
good  suit  of  well-cut  clothes,  shiny  stove-pipe  silk 
hat,  high  collar  with  a  good  deal  of  necktie,  a  big 
pearl  pin,  and  a  long  gold  watch-chain  which  went 
all  around  his  neck  like  an  eye-glass  ribbon.  He 
had  a  smooth-shaven  face,  two  keen  eyes,  a  flat 
nose,  square  jaw,  and  a  straight  line  of  a  mouth. 

"I  didn't  know  the  man,  didn't  want  to  know 
him,  fellows  in  silk  hats  not  being  popular  with 
270 


MAKNT'S    SHADOW 

us,  and  I  didn't  keep  an  eye  on  him  except  long 
enough  to  satisfy  myself  that  the  man  was  only 
one  of  those  hungry  travellers  who  was  adding  to 
his  stock  of  information  by  picking  up  the  crumbs 
of  conversation  which  fell  from  the  tables,  and  not 
at  all  the  kind  of  a  person  who  would  hold  me  or 
anybody  else  up  in  a  sotto  portico  or  chuck  me  over 
a  bridge.  Then  again,  I  was  twenty  pounds 
heavier  than  he  was,  and  could  take  care  of  myself. 

"Some  nights  after  this  I  was  dining  alone,  none 
of  the  boys  having  shown  up  owing  to  a  heavy 
rain,  when  Auguste  nudged  me,  and  there  sat  this 
stranger  within  ten  feet  of  my  table.  He  dropped 
his  eyes  when  he  saw  me  looking  at  him,  and  be 
gan  turning  the  sheets  of  a  letter  he  had  in  his 
hand.  I  was  smoking  one  of  Auguste's  cigarettes, 
and  checking  the  menu  with  a  lead-pencil,  when 
it  slipped  from  my  hand  and  rolled  between  the 
man's  feet.  He  rose,  picked  up  the  pencil,  laid  it 
beside  my  plate,  and  without  a  word  returned  to 
his  seat,  that  same  curious,  inquisitive,  hungry 
look  on  his  face  you  saw  a  moment  ago  on  that  fel 
low's  who  has  just  gone  out.  Auguste,  of  course, 
lost  all  interest  in  my  dinner.  If  he  wasn't  after 
me  then  he  was  after  him;  both  meant  trouble  for 
Auguste. 

"I  shifted  my  chair,  opened  the  'Gazetta'  to 

serve  as  a  screen,  and  looked  the  fellow  over.    If 

he  were  following  me  around  to  murder  me,  as 

Auguste  concluded — he  always  had  some  cock-and- 

271 


THE    UNDEK   DOG 

bull  story  to  tell — lie  was  certainly  very  polite 
about  it.  I  could  see  that  he  was  not  an  Italian, 
neither  was  he  a  German  nor  a  Frenchman.  He 
looked  more  like  a  well-to-do  Dutchman — like  one 
of  those  young  fellows  you  and  I  used  to  see  at  the 
Harmonic  Club  in  Dordrecht,  or  on  the  veranda 
of  the  Amstel,  in  Amsterdam.  They  look  more 
like  Americans  than  any  other  people  in  Europe. 

"The  next  night  I  was  telling  the  fellows  some 
stories,  they  crowding  about  to  listen,  when 
Auguste  whispered  in  my  ear.  I  turned,  and 
there  he  was  again,  his  eyes  watching  every  mouth 
ful  I  swallowed,  his  ears  taking  in  everything  that 
was  said.  The  other  fellows  had  noticed  him  now, 
and  had  christened  him  'Marny's  Shadow.'  One 
of  them  wanted  to  ask  him  his  business,  and  fire 
him  into  the  street  if  it  wasn't  satisfactory,  but  I 
wouldn't  have  it.  He  had  said  nothing  to  me  or 
anybody  else,  nor  had  he,  so  far  as  I  knew,  fol 
lowed  me  when  I  went  out.  He  had  a  perfect 
right  to  dine  where  he  pleased  if  he  paid  for  it — 
and  he  did — so  Auguste  admitted,  and  liberally, 
too.  He  could  look  at  whom  he  pleased.  The  fact 
is,  that  but  for  Auguste,  who  was  scared  white  half 
the  time,  fearing  the  Government  would  get  on  to 
his  cigarette  game,  no  one  would  have  noticed  him. 
Besides,  the  fellow  might  have  his  own  reasons  for 
remaining  incog.,  and  if  he  did  we  all  knew  he 
wouldn't  have  been  the  first  one. 

"A  few  days  after  this  I  was  painting  up  the 
272 


HAUNT'S    SHADOW 

Zattere  near  San  Rosario — I  was  making  the 
sketch  for  that  big  Giudecca  picture — the  one  that 
went  to  Munich  that  year — you  remember  it? — lot 
of  figures  around  a  fruit-stand,  with  the  church  on 
the  right  and  the  Giudecca  and  Lagoon  beyond — 
and  had  my  gondolier  Marco  posing  some  twenty 
feet  away  with  his  back  turned  toward  me,  when 
my  mysterious  friend  walked  out  from  a  little  calle 
this  side  of  the  church,  looked  at  Marco  for  a  mo 
ment  without  turning  his  head — he  didn't  see  me 
— and  stopped  at  a  door  next  to  old  Pietro  Yarni's 
wine-shop.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  looking  up 
and  down  the  Zattere,  opened  the  door  with  a  key 
which  he  took  from  his  pocket,  and  disappeared  in 
side.  I  beckoned  to  Marco,  and  sent  him  to  the 
wine-shop  to  find  Pietro.  When  he  came  (Pietro 
was  agent  for  the  lodging-rooms  above,  and  let 
them  out  to  swell  painters — we  couldn't  afford 
them — fifty  lira  a  week,  some  of  them  more  I 
said: 

"  'Pietro,  did  you  see  the  chap  that  went  up 
stairs  a  few  moments  ago?' 

"  'Yes,  signore.' 

"  'Do  you  know  who  he  is?' 

"  'Yes,  he  is  one  of  my  gentlemen.  He  has  the 
top  floor — the  one  that  Signore  Almadi  used  to 
live  in.  The  Signore  Almadi  is  gone  away.' 

"  'How  long  has  he  been  here?' 

"  'About  a  month.' 

"  'Is  he  a  painter  ?' 

273 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

"  'No,  I  don't  think  so.' 

"  'What  is  he,  then?' 

"  'Ah,  Signore,  who  can  tell?  At  first  his  let 
ters  were  sent  to  me — now  he  gets  them  himself. 
The  last  were  from  Monte  Carlo,  from  the  Hotel 
— Hotel — I  forget  the  name.  But  why  does  the 
Signore  want  to  know?  He  pays  the  rent  on  the 
day — that  is  much  better.' 

"  'Where  does  he  come  from?' 

"Pietro  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  'That  will  do,  Pietro.' 

"There  was  evidently  nothing  to  be  gotten  out 
of  him. 

"The  next  day  we  had  another  rainstorm — 
regular  deluge.  This  time  it  came  down  in  sheets ; 
campos  running  rivers;  gondolas  half  full  of  wa 
ter,  everything  soaked.  I  had  a  room  in  the  top 
of  the  Palazzo  da  Mula  on  the  Grand  Canal  just 
above  the  Salute  and  within  a  step  of  the  tra- 
ghetto  of  San  Giglio.  By  going  out  of  the  rear 
door  and  keeping  close  to  the  wall  of  the  houses 
skirting  the  Fondamenta  San  Zorzi,  I  could  reach 
the  traghetto  without  getting  wet.  The  Quadri 
was  the  nearest  caffe,  anyhow,  and  so  I  started. 

"When  I  stepped  out  of  the  gondola  on  the 
other  side  of  the  canal  and  walked  up  the  wooden 
steps  to  the  level  of  the  Campo,  my  mysterious 
friend  moved  out  from  under  the  shadow  of  the 
traghetto  box  and  stood  where  the  light  from  the 
lantern  hanging  in  front  of  the  Madonna  fell  upon 
274 


MAKNT'S    SHADOW 

his  face.    His  eyes,  as  usual,  were  fixed  on  mine. 
He  had  evidently  been  waiting  for  me. 

"I  thought  I  might  just  as  well  end  the  thing 
then  as  at  any  other  time.  There  was  no  question 
now  in  my  mind  that  the  fellow  meant  business. 

"I  turned  on  him  squarely. 

"  'You  waiting  for  me?' 

"  'Yes.' 

"  'What  for?' 

"  'I  want  you  to  go  to  dinner  with  me/ 

"'Where?' 

"  'Anywhere  you  say.' 

"  'I  don't  know  you.' 

"  'Yes,  that's  what  I  thought  you  would  say.' 

"  'Do  you  know  me  ?' 

"  'No.' 

"  'Know  my  name?' 

"  'Yes,  your  name's  Marny.' 

"  'What's  yours?' 

"  'Mine's  Diffendorfer.' 

"  'Where  do  you  want  to  dine?' 

"  'Anywhere  you  say.  How  will  the  Quadri 
do?' 

"  'In  a  private  room?'  I  said  this  to  see  how 
he  would  take  it.  He  still  stood  in  the  full  glare 
of  the  lantern. 

"  'No,  unless  you  prefer.  I  would  rather  dine 
downstairs — more  people  there.' 

"  'All  right— lead  the  way,  I'll  follow.' 

"It  was  the   worst  night  that  you   ever  saw. 
275 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

Hardly  a  soul  in  the  streets.  It  had  set  in  for  a 
three  days'  storm,  I  knew;  we  always  had  them  in 
Venice  during  December.  My  friend  kept  right 
on  without  looking  behind  him  or  speaking  to  me ; 
over  the  bridge,  through  the  Campo  San  Moise  and 
so  on  to  the  Piazza  and  the  caffe.  There  were  only 
half  a  dozen  fellows  inside  when  we  entered. 
These  greeted  me  with  the  yell  of  welcome  we 
always  gave  each  other  on  entering,  and  which  this 
time  I  didn't  return.  I  knew  they  would  open 
their  eyes  when  they  saw  us  sit  down  together,  and 
I  didn't  want  any  complications  by  which  I  would 
be  obliged  to  introduce  him  to  anybody.  I  hated 
not  to  be  decent,  but  you  see  I  didn't  know  but 
I'd  have  to  hand  him  over  to  the  police  before  I 
was  through  with  him,  and  I  wanted  the  respon 
sibility  of  his  acquaintance  to  devolve  on  me 
alone.  Roscoff  either  wouldn't  or  didn't  take  in 
the  situation,  for  he  came  up  when  we  were  seated, 
leaned  over  my  chair,  and  put  his  arm  around  my 
neck.  I  saw  a  shade  of  disappointment  cross  my 
companion's  face  when  I  didn't  present  Roscoff  to 
him,  but  he  said  nothing.  But  I  couldn't  help  it 
— I  didn't  see  anything  else  to  do.  Then  again, 
Roscoff  was  one  of  those  fellows  who  would  never 
let  you  hear  the  end  of  it  if  anything  went 
wrong. 

"The  man  looked  at  the  bill  of  fare  steadily  for 
some  minutes,  pushed  it  over  to  me,  and  said :  'You 
order.' 

276 


MARTY'S    SHADOW 

"There  was  nothing  gracious  in  the  way  he  said 
it — more  like  a  command  than  anything  else.  It 
nettled  me  for  a  moment.  I  don't  like  your  but- 
toned-up  land  of  a  man  that  gives  you  a  word  now 
and  then  as  grudgingly  as  if  he  were  doling  out 
pennies  from  a  pocket-book.  But  I  kept  still. 
Then  I  was  on  a  voyage  of  discovery.  The  tones 
of  his  voice  jarred  on  me,  I  must  admit,  and  I  an 
swered  him  in  the  same  peremptory  way.  Not 
that  I  had  any  animosity  toward  him,  but  so  as  to 
meet  him  on  his  own  ground. 

"  'Then  it  will  be  the  regular  table  d'hote  din 
ner  with  a  pint  of  Chianti  for  each/  I  snapped  out. 
'Will  that  suit  you?' 

"  'Yes,  if  you  like  Chianti.' 

"  'I  do  when  it's  good.' 

"  'Do  you  like  anything  better?'  he  asked,  as  if 
he  were  cross-questioning  me  on  the  stand. 

"  'Yes.' 

"'What?' 

"  'Well,  Valpocelli  of  '82.'  That  was  the  best 
wine  in  their  cellar,  and  cost  ten  lire  a  bottle. 

"  'Is  there  anything  better  than  that?'  he  de 
manded. 

"  'Yes,  Yalpocelli  of  '71.  Thirty  lire  a  bottle. 
They  haven't  a  drop  of  it  here  or  anywhere 
else.' 

"Auguste,  who  had  been  half -paralyzed  when 
we  sat  down,  and  who,  in  his  bewilderment,  had 
not    heard   the    conversation,    reached    over    and 
277 


THE    TINDER   DOG 

placed  the  ordinary  Chianti  included  in  the  price 
of  the  dinner  at  my  elbow. 

"The  man  raised  his  eyes,  looked  at  Auguste 
with  a  peculiar  expression,  amounting  almost  to 
disgust,  on  his  face,  and  said: 

"  'I  didn't  order  that.  Take  that  stuff  away  and 
bring  me  a  bottle  of  '82 — a  quart,  mind  you — if 
you  haven't  the  '71.' 

"All  through  the  dinner  he  talked  in  monosyl 
lables,  answering  my  questions  but  offering  few 
topics  of  his  own;  and  although  I  did  my  best  to 
draw  him  out,  he  made  no  statement  of  any  kind 
that  would  give  me  the  slightest  clew  as  to  his  an 
tecedents  or  that  would  lead  up  either  to  his  occu 
pation  or  his  purpose  in  seeking  me  out.  He 
didn't  seem  to  wish  to  conceal  anything  about  him 
self,  although  of  course  I  asked  him  no  personal 
questions,  nor  did  he  pump  me  about  my  affairs. 
He  was  just  one  of  those  dull,  lifeless  conversa 
tionalists  who  must  be  probed  all  the  time  to  get 
anything  out  of.  Before  I  was  half  through  the 
dinner  I  wondered  why  I  had  bothered  about  him 
at  all. 

"All  this  time  the  fellows  were  off  in  one  corner 
watching  the  whole  affair.  "When  Auguste 
brought  the  '82,  looking  like  a  huge  tear  bottle 
dug  up  from  where  it  had  rusted  for  two  thousand 
years,  Roscoff  gave  a  gasp  and  crossed  the  room 
to  tell  Billy  Wood  that  I  had  struck  a  millionnaire 
who  was  going  to  buy  everything  I  had  painted, 
278 


MAKNY'S    SHADOW 

including  my  big  picture  for  the  Salon,  all  of  which 
was  about  as  close  as  that  idiot  Roscoff  ever  got 
to  anything. 

"When  the  bill  was  brought  Diffendorfer  turned 
his  back  to  me,  took  out  a  roll  of  bills  from  his  hip- 
pocket,  and  passed  a  new  bank-note  to  Auguste 
with  a  contemptuous  side  wiggle  of  his  forefinger 
and  the  remark  in  English  in  a  tone  intended  for 
Auguste's  ear  alone:  'No  change.' 

"Auguste  laid  the  bill  on  his  tray  and  walked 
up  to  the  desk  with  a  face  struggling  between  joy 
over  the  fee  and  terror  for  my  safety.  A  fellow 
who  lived  on  ten-lire  wine  and  who  gave  money 
away  like  water  must  murder  people  for  a  living 
and  have  a  cemetery  of  his  own  in  which  to  bury 
his  dead.  He  evidently  never  expected  to  see  me 
alive  again. 

"Dinner  over  and  paid  for,  my  host  put  on  his 
coat,  said  'Good-night'  with  rather  an  embarrassed 
air,  and  without  looking  at  anyone  in  the  room — 
not  even  Roscoff,  who  made  a  move  as  if  to  inter 
cept  him — Roscoff  had  some  pictures  of  his  own  to 
sell — walked  dejectedly  out  of  the  caffe  and  disap 
peared  in  the  night. 

"When  I  crossed  the  traghetto  the  following 
evening  the  storm  had  not  abated.  It  was  worse 
than  on  the  previous  night;  the  wind  was  blowing 
a  gale  and  whirling  the  fog  into  the  narrow  streets 
and  choking  up  the  archways  and  sotii  portici. 

"As  my  foot  touched  the  flagging  of  the  Campo, 
279 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

Diffendorfer  stepped  forward  and  laid  his  hand  on 
my  arm. 

"  'You  are  late/  he  said.  He  spoke  in  the  same 
crisp  way  he  had  the  night  before.  Whether  it 
was  an  assumed  air  of  bravado,  or  whether  it  was 
his  natural  ugly  disposition,  I  couldn't  tell.  It 
jarred  on  me  again,  however,  and  I  walked  on. 

"He  stepped  quickly  in  front  of  me,  as  if  to  bar 
my  way,  and  said,  in  a  gentler  tone: 

"  'Don't  go  away.     Come  dine  with  me.' 

"  'But  I  dined  with  you  yesterday.' 

"  'Yes,  I  know — and  you  hated  me  afterward. 
I'll  be  better  this  time.' 

"  'I  didn't  hate  you,  I  only ' 

"  'Yes,  you  did,  and  you  had  reason  to.  I  wasn't 
myself,  somehow.  Try  me  again  to-day.' 

"There  was  something  in  his  eyes — a  troubled, 
disappointed  expression  that  appealed  to  me — and 
so  I  said : 

"  'All  right,  but  on  one  condition:  it's  my  dinner 
this  time.' 

"  'And  my  wine,'  he  answered,  and  a  satisfied 
look  came  into  his  face. 

"  'Yes,  your  wine.     Come  along.' 

"The  fellow's  blunt,  jerky  way  of  speaking  had 
somehow  made  me  speak  in  the  same  way.  Our 
talk  sounded  just  like  two  boys  who  had  had  a 
fight  and  who  were  forced  to  shake  hands  and 
make  up.  My  own  curiosity  as  to  who  he  might 
be,  what  he  was  doing  in  Venice,  and  why  he  was 
280 


MARNY'S    SHADOW 

pursuing  me,  was  now  becoming  aroused.  That 
he  should  again  throw  himself  in  my  way  after 
the  stupid  dinner  of  the  night  before  only  deep 
ened  the  mystery. 

"When  we  got  inside,  just  as  we  were  taking 
our  seats  at  one  of  the  small  tables  in  that  side  room 
off  the  street,  a  shout  of  laughter  came  from  the 
next  room — the  one  we  fellows  always  dined  in.  I 
had  determined  to  get  inside  of  the  fellow  at  this 
sitting,  and  thought  the  more  retired  table  better 
for  the  purpose.  Diffendorfer  jumped  to  his  feet 
on  hearing  the  laughter,  peered  into  the  room,  and, 
picking  up  his  wet  umbrella,  said: 

"  'Let's  go  in  there — more  people.'  I  followed 
him,  and  drew  out  another  chair  from  a  table  op 
posite  one  at  which  Roscoff,  Woods,  and  two  or 
three  of  the  boys  were  dining.  They  all  nudged 
each  other  when  we  came  in,  and  a  wink  went 
around,  but  they  didn't  speak.  They  behaved  pre 
cisely  as  if  I  had  a  girl  in  tow  and  wanted  to  be 
left  alone. 

"This  dinner  was  exactly  like  the  first  one. 
Diffendorfer  ordered  the  same  wine — Valpocelli, 
'82,  and  ate  each  course  that  Auguste  brought  him, 
with  only  a  word  now  and  then  about  the  weather, 
the  number  of  people  in  Venice,  and  the  dishes. 
The  only  time  when  his  face  lighted  up  was  when 
a  chap  named  Cruthers,  from  Munich,  who  ar 
rived  that  morning  and  who  hadn't  been  in  Venice 
for  years,  came  up  and  slapped  me  on  the  back  and 
281 


THE    UNDER   DOG 

hollered  out  as  he  dragged  up  a  chair  and  sat  down 
beside  me:  'Glad  to  see  you,  old  man;  what  are 
you  drinking?' 

"I  reached  for  the  '82 — there  was  only  a  glass 
left — and  was  moving  the  bottle  within  reach  of 
my  friend's  hand  when  Diffendorfer  said  to  Au- 
guste: 

"  'Bring  another  quart  of  '82;'  then  he  turned 
and  said  to  the  Munich  chap:  'Sorry,  sir,  it  isn't 
the  '71,  but  they  haven't  a  bottle  in  the  house.' 

"I  was  up  a  tree,  and  so  I  said : 

"  'Cruthers,  let  me  present  you  to  my  friend, 
Mr.  Diffendorfer.'  My  companion  at  mention  of 
his  name  sprang  up,  seized  Cruthers's  fingers  as  if 
he  had  been  a  long-lost  brother,  and  pretty  nearly 
shook  his  hand  off.  Cruthers  said  in  reply: 

"  'I'm  very  glad  to  meet  you.  If  you're  a  friend 
of  Marny's  you're  all  right.  You've  got  all  you 
ought  to  have  in  this  world.'  You  must  have 
known  Cruthers — he  was  always  saying  that  kind 
of  frilly  things  to  the  boys.  Then  they  both  sat 
down  again. 

"After  this  quite  a  different  expression  came 
into  the  man's  face.  His  embarrassment,  or  ugli 
ness  of  temper,  or  whatever  it  was,  was  gone.  He 
jumped  up  again,  insisted  upon  filling  Cruthers's 
glass  himself,  and  when  Cruthers  tasted  it  and 
winked  both  of  his  eyes  over  it,  and  then  got  up 
and  shook  Diffendorfer's  hand  a  second  time  to  let 
him  know  how  good  he  thought  it  was,  and  how 
282 


MAKNT'S    SHADOW 

proud  lie  was  of  being  his  guest,  Diffendorfer's 
face  even  broke  out  into  a  smile,  and  for  a  moment 
the  fellow  was  as  happy  as  anybody  about  him, 
and  not  the  chump  he  had  been  with  me.  He  was 
evidently  pleased  with  Cruthers,  for  when  Cruthers 
refused  a  third  glass  he  said  to  him:  'To-morrow, 
perhaps' — and,  beckoning  to  Auguste,  said,  in  a 
voice  loud  enough  for  us  all  to  hear:  'Put  a  cork  in 
it  and  mark  it;  we'll  finish  it  to-morrow.' 

"Cruthers  made  no  reply,  not  considering  him 
self,  of  course,  as  one  of  the  party,  and,  nodding 
pleasantly  to  my  companion,  joined  Woods's  table 
again. 

"When  dinner  was  over,  Diffendorfer  put  on  his 
hat  and  coat,  handed  me  my  umbrella,  and  said: 

"  'I'm  going  home  now.  Walk  along  with 
me?' 

"It  was  still  raining,  the  wind  rattling  the 
swinging  doors  of  the  caffe.  I  did  not  answer  for 
a  moment.  The  dinner  had  left  me  as  much  in 
the  dark  as  ever,  and  I  was  trying  to  make  up  my 
mind  what  to  do  next. 

"  'Why  not  stay  here  and  smoke  ?'  I  asked. 

"  'No,  walk  along  with  me  as  far  as  the  tra- 
ghetto,  please,'  and  he  laid  his  hand  in  a  half- 
pleading  way  on  my  arm. 

"Again  that  same  troubled  look  in  his  face  that 

I  had  seen  once  before  made  me  alter  my  mind. 

I  threw  on  my  coat,  picked  up  my  umbrella,  nodded 

to  the  boys,  who  looked  rather  anxiously  after  me, 

283 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

and  plunged  through  the  door  and  out  into  the 
storm. 

"It  was  the  kind  of  a  night  that  I  love, — a  regu 
lar  howler.  Most  people  think  the  sunshine  makes 
Venice,  but  they  wouldn't  think  so  if  they  could 
study  it  on  one  of  these  nights  when  a  nor'easter 
whirls  up  out  of  the  Adriatic  and  comes  roaring 
across  the  lagoons  as  if  it  would  swallow  up  the 
dear  old  girl  and  sweep  her  into  the  sea.  She  don't 
mind  it.  She  always  comes  up  smiling  the  next 
day,  looking  twice  as  pretty  for  her  bath,  and  I'm 
always  twice  as  happy,  for  I've  seen  a  whole  lot  of 
things  I  never  would  have  seen  in  the  daylight. 
The  Campanile,  for  one  thing,  upside  down  in  the 
streaming  piazza ;  slashes  of  colored  light  from  the 
shop-windows  soaking  into  the  rain-pools;  and 
great,  black,  gloomy  shadows  choking  up  alleys, 
with  only  a  single  taper  peering  out  of  the  dark 
ness  like  a  burglar's  lantern. 

"When  we  turned  to  breast  the  gale — the  rain 
had  almost  ceased — and  struggled  on  through  the 
Ascensione,  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  whirled  my  um 
brella  inside  out,  and  after  that  I  walked  on  ahead 
of  him,  stopping  every  now  and  then  to  enjoy  the 
grandeur  of  it  all,  until  we  reached  the  traghetto. 
When  we  arrived,  only  one  gondola  was  on  duty, 
the  gondolier  muffled  to  his  eyes  in  glistening  oil 
skins,  his  sou'wester  hat  tied  under  his  chin. 

"Once  on  the  other  side  of  the  Canal  it  started 
in  to  rain  again,  and  so  Diffendorfer  held  his  own 
284 


MAKNT'S    SHADOW 

umbrella  over  me  until  we  reached  my  gate  on  the 
Fondamenta  San  Zorzi,  in  the  rear  of  my  quarters. 
He  stood  beside  me  under  the  flare  of  the  gas-jets 
while  I  fumbled  in  my  pocket  for  my  night-key — 
I  had  about  decided  to  invite  him  in  and  pump  him 
dry — and  then  said: 

"  'I  live  a  little  way  from  here;  don't  go  in; 
come  home  with  me.' 

"A  strange  feeling  now  took  possession  of  me, 
which  I  could  not  account  for.  The  whole  plot 
rushed  over  me  with  a  force  which  I  must  confess 
sent  a  cold  chill  down  my  back.  I  began  to  think: 
This  man  had  forced  himself  upon  me  not  once, 
but  twice;  had  set  up  the  best  bottle  of  wine  he 
could  buy,  and  was  now  about  to  steer  me  into  a 
den.  Then  the  thought  rose  in  my  mind — I  could 
handle  any  two  of  him,  and  if  I  give  way  now  and 
he  finds  I  am  over-cautious  or  suspicious,  it  will 
only  make  it  worse  for  me  when  I  see  him  again. 
This  was  followed  by  a  common-sense  view  of  the 
whole  situation.  The  mystery  in  it,  after  all,  if 
there  was  any  mystery,  was  one  of  my  own  mak 
ing.  To  ask  a  man  who  had  been  dining  with  you 
to  come  to  your  lodging  was  neither  a  suspicious 
nor  an  unusual  thing.  Besides,  while  he  had  been 
often  brusque,  and  at  times  curt,  he  had  shown  me 
nothing  but  kindness,  and  had  tried  only  to  please 
me. 

"My  mind  was   made  up   instantly.    I   deter 
mined  to  follow  the  affair  to  the  end. 
285 


THE   TINDER   DOG 

"  'Yes,  I'll  go,'  and  I  pulled  my  umbrella  into 
shape,  opened  it  with  a  flop,  and  stepped  from  the 
shelter  of  the  doorway  into  the  pelt  of  the  driving 
rain. 

"We  kept  on  up  the  Fondamenta,  crossed  the 
bridge  by  the  side  of  the  Canal  of  San  Yio  as  far 
as  the  Gaffe  Calcina,  and  then  out  on  the  Zattere, 
which  was  being  soused  with  the  waves  of  the 
Giudecca  breaking  over  the  coping  of  its  pave 
ment.  Hugging  the  low  wall  of  Clara  Montalba's 
garden,  he  keeping  out  of  the  wind  as  best  he 
could,  we  passed  the  church  of  San  Rosario  and 
stopped  at  the  same  low  door  opening  into  the 
building  next  to  Pietro's  wine-shop — the  one  I  had 
seen  him  enter  when  I  was  painting.  The  caffe 
was  still  open,  for  the  glow  of  its  lights  streamed 
out  upon  the  night  and  was  reflected  in  the  rain- 
drenched  pavement.  Then  a  thought  struck 
me: 

"  'Come  in  here  a  moment/  I  said  to  him,  and 
I  pushed  in  Pietro's  door. 

"  'Pietro,'  I  called  out,  so  that  everybody  in  the 
caffe  could  hear,  'I'm  going  up  to  Mr.  Diffendor- 
fer's  room.  Better  get  a  fiasco  of  Chianti  ready 
— the  old  kind  you  have  in  the  cellar.  "When  I 
want  it  I'll  send  for  it.'  If  I  was  going  into  a  trap 
it  was  just  as  well  to  let  somebody  know  whom  I 
was  last  seen  with.  The  boys  had  seen  me  go  out 
with  him,  but  nobody  knew  where  he  lived  or 
where  he  had  taken  me.  I  was  ashamed  of  it  as 
286 


MABNY'S    SHADOW 

soon  as  I  had  said  it,  but  somehow  I  felt  as  if  it 
were  just  as  well  to  keep  my  eyes  open. 

"Diffendorfer  pushed  past  me  and  called  out  to 
Pietro,  in  a  half -angry  tone : 

"  'No,  don't  you  send  it.  I've  got  all  the  wine 
we'll  want/  turned  on  his  heel,  held  his  door 
open  for  me  to  pass  in,  and  slammed  it  behind 
us. 

"It  was  pitch-dark  inside  as  we  mounted  the 
stairs  one  step  at  a  time  until  we  reached  the  sec 
ond  flight,  where  the  light  from  a  smouldering 
wick  of  a  fiorentina  set  in  a  niche  in  the  wall  shed 
a  dim  glow.  At  the  sound  of  our  footsteps  a  door 
was  opened  in  a  passageway  on  our  left,  a  head 
thrust  out,  and  as  suddenly  withdrawn.  The  same 
thing  happened  on  the  third  landing.  Diffendor 
fer  paid  no  attention  to  these  intrusions,  and  kept 
on  down  a  long  corridor  ending  in  a  door.  I  didn't 
like  the  heads — it  looked  as  if  they  were  waiting 
for  Diffendorfer  to  bring  somebody  home,  and 
so  I  slipped  my  umbrella  along  in  my  hand  until 
I  could  use  it  as  a  club,  and  waited  in  the  dark 
until  he  had  found  the  key-hole,  unlocked  the  door, 
and  thrown  it  open.  All  I  saw  was  the  gray  light 
of  the  windows  opposite  this  door,  which  made  a 
dim  silhouette  of  Diffendorfer's  figure.  Then  I 
heard  the  scraping  of  a  match,  and  a  gas-jet 
flashed. 

"  'Come  in/  called  Diffendorfer,  in  a  cheery 
tone.  '"Wait  till  I  punch  up  the  fire.  Here,  take 
287 


THE   UNDEK   DOG 

this  seat,'  and  lie  moved  a  great  chair  close  to  the 
grate. 

"I  have  seen  a  good  many  rooms  in  my  time,  but 
I  must  say  this  one  took  the  breath  out  of  me  for 
an  instant.  The  walls  were  hung  in  old  tapestries, 
the  furniture  was  of  the  rarest.  There  were  three 
or  four  old  armchairs  that  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  stolen  out  of  the  Doge's  Palace. 

"Diffendorfer  continued  punching  away  at  the 
fire  until  it  burst  into  a  blaze. 

"In  another  moment  he  was  on  his  feet  again, 
saying  he  had  forgotten  something.  Then  he  en 
tered  the  next  room — there  were  three  in  the  suite 
— unlocked  a  closet,  brought  back  a  mouldy-look 
ing  bottle  and  two  Venetian  glasses,  moved  up  a 
spider-legged,  inlaid  table,  and  said,  as  he  placed 
the  bottle  and  glasses  beside  me: 

"  That's  the  Valpocelli  of  '71.  You  needn't 
worry  about  helping  yourself;  I've  got  a  dozen  bot 
tles  more.' 

"I  thought  the  game  had  gone  far  enough  now, 
and  I  squared  myself  and  faced  him. 

"  'See  here,  Mr.  Diffendorfer,'  I  said,  'before  I 
take  your  wine  I've  got  some  questions  to  ask  you. 
I'm  going  to  ask  them  pretty  straight,  too,  and  I 
want  you  to  answer  them  exactly  in  the  same  way. 
You  have  followed  me  round  now  for  two  weeks. 
You  invite  me  to  dinner — a  man  you  have  never 
seen  before — and  when  I  come  you  sit  like  a  bump 
on  a  log,  and  half  the  time  I  can't  get  a  word  out 
288 


MAKNT'S    SHADOW 

of  you.  You  spend  your  money  on  me  like  water 
— none  of  which  I  can  return,  and  you  know  it — 
and  when  I  tell  you  I  don't  like  that  sort  of  thing 
you  double  the  expense.  Now,  what  does  it  all 
mean?  Who  are  you,  anyway,  and  where  do  you 
come  from?  If  you're  all  right  there's  my  hand, 
and  you'll  find  it  wide  open.' 

"He  dropped  into  his  chair,  put  his  head  into 
his  hands  for  a  moment,  and  said,  in  a  greatly  al 
tered  tone: 

"  'If  I  told  you,  you  wouldn't  understand/ 

"  'Yes,  I  would.' 

"  'ISTo,  you  wouldn't — you  couldn't.  You've  had 
everything  you  wanted  all  your  life — I  haven't 
had  anything.' 

"  'Me ! — what  rot !  You've  got  a  chair  under 
you  now  that  will  sell  for  more  money  than  I  see 
in  a  year.' 

"  'Yes — and  nobody  to  sit  in  it;  not  a  man  who 
knows  me  or  wants  to  know  me.' 

"  'But  why  did  you  pick  me  out  ?' 

"  'Because  you  seemed  to  be  the  kind  of  a  man 
who  would  understand  me  best.  I  watched  you 
for  weeks,  though  you  didn't  know  it.  You've  got 
people  who  love  you  for  yourself.  You  go  into 
Florian's  or  the  Quadri  and  you  can't  get  a  chance 
to  swallow  a  mouthful  for  fellows  who  want  to 
shake  hands  with  you  and  slap  you  on  the  back. 
When  I  saw  that,  I  got  up  courage  enough  to  speak 
to  you. 

289 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

"  'When  that  first  night  you  wouldn't  introduce 
me  to  your  friend  Roscoff,  I  saw  how  it  was  and 
how  you  suspected  me,  and  I  came  near  giving  it 
up.  Then  I  thought  I'd  try  again,  and  if  you 
hadn't  introduced  Mr.  Cruthers  to  me,  and  if  he 
hadn't  drank  my  wine,  I  would  have  given  it  up. 
But  I  don't  want  them  to  like  me  because  I'm  with 
you.  I  want  them  to  like  me  for  myself,  so  they'll 
be  glad  to  see  me  when  I  come  in,  just  as  they  are 
glad  to  see  you. 

"  'I  come  from  Pennsylvania.  My  father  owns 
the  oil-wells  at  Stockville.  He  came  over  from 
Holland  when  he  was  a  boy.  He  sent  me  over 
here  six  months  ago  to  learn  something  about  the 
world,  and  told  me  not  to  come  back  till  I  did.  I 
got  to  Paris,  and  I  couldn't  find  a  soul  to  talk  to 
but  the  hotel  porter;  then  I  kept  on  to  Lucerne, 
and  it  was  no  better  there.  When  I  got  as  far  as 
Dresden  I  mustered  up  courage  to  speak  to  a  man 
in  the  station,  but  he  moved  off,  and  I  saw  him 
afterward  speaking  to  a  policeman  and  pointing  to 
me.  Then  I  came  on  down  here.  I  thought 
maybe  if  I  got  some  good  rooms  to  live  in  where 
people  could  be  comfortable,  I  could  get  somebody 
to  come  in  and  sit  down.  So  I  bought  this  lot  of 
truck  of  an  Italian  named  Almadi — a  prince  or 
something — and  moved  in.  I  tried  the  fellows  who 
lived  here — you  saw  them  sticking  their  heads  out 
as  we  came  up — but  they  don't  speak  English,  so 
I  was  as  bad  off  as  I  was  before.  Then  I  made  up 
290 


MAKNT'S    SHADOW 

my  mind  I'd  tackle  you  and  keep  at  it  till  I  got 
to  know  you.  You  might  think  it  queer  now  that 
I  didn't  tell  you  before  who  I  was  or  how  I  came 
here,  or  how  lonesome  I  was — just  lonesome — but 
I  just  couldn't.  I  didn't  want  your  pity,  I  wanted 
your  friendship.  That's  all.' 

"He  har'.  straightened  up  now,  and  was  leaning 
back  in  his  chair. 

"  'And  it  was  just  dead  lonesomeness,  then,  was 
it?'  and  I  held  out  my  hand  to  him. 

"  'Yes — the  deadliest  kind  of  lonesome.  Kind 
makes  you  want  to  fall  off  a  dock.  Now,  please 
drink  my  wine' — and  he  pushed  the  bottle  toward 
me — 'I  had  a  devil  of  a  hunt  for  it,  but  I  wanted 
to  do  something  for  you  you  couldn't  do  for  your 
self.' 

"We  fellows,  I  tell  you,  took  charge  of  Diffen- 
dorfer  after  that,  and  a  ripping  good  fellow  he  was. 
We  got  that  high  collar  off  of  him,  a  slouch  hat  on 
his  head  instead  of  his  stove-pipe,  and  a  pipe  in  his 
mouth,  and  before  the  winter  was  over  he  had  more 
friends  than  any  fellow  in  Venice.  It  was  only 
awkwardness  that  made  him  talk  so  queer  and 
ugly.  And  maybe  we  didn't  have  some  good  times 
in  those  rooms  of  his  on  the  Zattere!" 

Marny  stopped,  threw  away  the  end  of  his  cigar, 
laid  a  coin  under  his  plate  for  the  waiter  and  an 
other  on  top  of  it  for  Henri,  the  chef,  reached  for 
291 


THE    TINDER   DOG 

his  hat,  and  said,  as  he  rose  from  his  seat,  and 
flecked  the  ashes  from  his  coat-sleeve: 

"So  now,  whenever  I  see  a  poor  devil  haunting 
a  place  like  this,  looking  around  out  of  the  corner 
of  his  eye,  hoping  somebody  will  speak  to  him,  I 
say  that's  a  Diffendorfer,  and  more  than  half  the 
time  I'm  right." 


MUFFLES— THE  BAR-KEEP 


MUFFLES— THE   BAR-KEEP 


My  friend  Muffles  has  had  a  varied  career. 
Muffles  is  not  his  baptismal  name — if  he  were  ever 
baptized,  which  I  doubt.  The  butcher,  the  baker, 
the  candlestick  maker,  and  the  brewer — especially 
the  brewer — knew  him  as  Mr.  Richard  Mulford, 
proprietor  of  the  Shady  Side  on  the  Bronx — and 
his  associates  as  Dick.  Only  his  intimates  knew 
him  as  Muffles.  I  am  one  of  his  intimates.  This 
last  sobriquet  he  earned  as  a  boy  among  his  fellow 
wharf-rats,  by  reason  of  an  extreme  lightness  of 
foot  attended  by  an  equally  noiseless  step,  partic 
ularly  noticeable  when  escaping  from  some  guar 
dian  of  the  peace  who  had  suddenly  detected  him 
raiding  an  apple-stand  not  his  own,  or  in  depleting 
a  heap  of  peanuts  the  property  of  some  gentleman 
of  foreign  birth,  or  in  making  off  with  a  just- 
emptied  ash-barrel — Muffles  did  the  emptying — 
on  the  eve  of  an  election. 

If  any  member  of  his  unknown  and  widely  scat 
tered  family  reached  the  dignity  of  being  consid 
ered  the  flower  of  the  clan,  no  stretch  of  imag- 
295 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

illation  or  the  truth  on  the  part  of  his  acquaint 
ances — and  they  were  numerous — ever  awarded 
that  distinction  to  Muffles.  He  might  have  been  a 
weed,  but  he  was  never  a  flower.  A  weed  that 
grew  up  between  the  cobbles,  crouching  under  the 
hoofs  of  horses  and  the  tramp  of  men,  and  who 
was  pulled  up  and  thrown  aside  and  still  lived  on 
and  flourished  in  various  ways,  and  all  with  that 
tenacity  of  purpose  and  buoyancy  of  spirit  which 
distinguishes  all  weeds  and  which  never  by  any 
possibility  marks  a  better  quality  of  plant,  vege 
table  or  animal. 

The  rise  of  this  gamin  from  the  dust-heap  to 
his  present  lofty  position  was  as  interesting  as  it 
was  instructive.  Interesting  because  his  career 
was  a  drama — instructive  because  it  showed  a 
grit,  pluck,  and  self-denial  which  many  of  his  con 
temporaries  might  have  envied  and  imitated: 
wharf-rat,  newsboy,  dish-washer  in  a  sailor's  dive, 
bar-helper,  bar-tender,  bar-keeper,  bar-owner, 
ward  heeler,  ward  politician,  clerk  of  a  district 
committee — go-between,  in  shady  deals,  between 
those  paid  to  uphold  the  law  and  those  paid  to 
break  it — and  now,  at  this  time  of  writing,  or  was 
a  year  or  so  ago,  the  husband  of  "the  Missus," 
as  he  always  calls  her,  the  father  of  two  children, 
one  three  and  the  other  five,  and  the  proprietor 
of  the  Shady  Side  Inn,  above  the  Harlem  River 
and  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  historic  Bronx. 

The  reaching  of  this  final  goal,  the  sum  of  all 
206 


MUFFLES— THE    BAR-KEEP 

his  hopes  and  ambitions,  was  due  to  the  same 
tenacity  of  purpose  which  had  characterized  his 
earlier  life,  aided  and  abetted  by  a  geniality  of 
disposition  which  made  him  countless  friends,  a 
conscience  which  overlooked  their  faults,  together 
with  a  total  lack  of  perception  as  to  the  legal 
ownership  of  whatever  happened  to  be  within  his 
reach.  As  to  the  keeping  of  the  other  command 
ments,  including  the  one  of  doing  unto  others  as 
you  would  have  them  do  unto  you 

Well,  Muffles  had  grown  up  between  the  cobbles 
of  the  Bowery,  and  his  early  education  had  conse 
quently  been  neglected. 

The  Shady  Side  Inn,  over  which  Muffles  pre 
sided,  and  in  which  he  was  one-third  owner — the 
Captain  of  the  Precinct  and  a  "Big  Pipe"  con 
tractor  owned  the  other  twc -thirds — was  what  was 
left  of  an  old  colonial  mansion.  There  are  dozens 
of  them  scattered  up  and  down  the  Bronx,  lying 
back  from  the  river;  with  porches  falling  into 
decay,  their  gardens  overrun  with  weeds,  their 
spacious  rooms  echoing  only  the  hum  of  the  sew 
ing-machine  or  the  buzz  of  the  loom. 

This  one  belonged  to  some  one  of  the  old 
Knickerbockers  whose  winter  residence  was  below 
Bleecker  Street  and  who  came  up  here  to  spend  the 
summer  and  so  escape  the  heat  of  the  dog-days. 
You  can  see  it  any  day  you  drive  up  the  Speed 
way.  It  has  stood  there  for  over  a  hundred  years 
and  is  likely  to  continue.  You  know  its  history, 
297 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

too — or  can,  if  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  look  up 
its  record.  Aaron  Burr  stopped  here,  of  course — 
he  stopped  about  everywhere  along  here  and  slept 
in  almost  every  house;  and  Hamilton  put  his 
horse  up  in  the  stables — only  the  site  remains; 
and  George  Washington  dined  on  the  back  porch, 
his  sorrel  mare  tied  to  one  of  the  big  trees.  There 
is  no  question  about  these  facts.  They  are  all  down 
in  the  books,  and  I  would  prove  it  to  you  if  I 
could  lay  my  hand  on  the  particular  record. 
Everybody  believes  it — Muffles  most  of  all. 

Many  of  the  old-time  fittings  and  appurtenances 
are  still  to  be  seen.  A  knocker  clings  to  the  front 
door — a  wobbly  old  knocker,  it  is  true,  with  one 
screw  gone  and  part  of  the  plate  broken — but  still 
boasting  its  colonial  descent  And  there  is  a  half- 
moon  window  over  the  door  above  it,  with  little 
panes  of  glass  held  in  place  by  a  spidery  parasol 
frame,  and  supported  on  spindling  columns  once 
painted  white.  And  there  is  an  old  lantern  in  the 
hall  and  funny  little  banisters  wreathed  about  a 
flight  of  stairs  that  twists  itself  up  to  the  second 
floor. 

The  relics — now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it — 
stop  here.  There  was  a  fine  old  mantel  framing 
a  great  open  fireplace  in  the  front  parlor,  before 
which  the  Father  of  His  Country  toasted  his  toes 
or  sipped  his  grog,  but  it  is  gone  now.  Muffles's 
bar  occupied  the  whole  side  of  this  front  room, 
and  the  cavity  once  filled  with  big,  generous  logs, 
298 


MUFFLES— THE    BAR-KEEP 

blazing  away  to  please  the  host's  distinguished 
guests,  held  a  collection  of  bottles  from  Muffles's 
cellar — a  moving  cellar,  it  is  true,  for  the  beer- 
wagon  and  the  grocer's  cart  replenished  it  daily. 

The  great  garden  in  the  rear  of  the  old  mansion 
has  also  changed.  The  lines  of  box  and  sweet 
syringa  are  known  only  by  their  roots.  The  rose- 
beds  are  no  more,  the  paths  that  were  woven  into 
long  stripes  across  its  grass-plats  are  overgrown 
and  hardly  traceable.  Only  one  lichen-covered, 
weather-stained  seat  circling  about  an  old  locust- 
tree  remains,  and  this  is  on  its  last  legs  and  needs 
propping  up — or  did  the  last  time  I  saw  it.  The 
trees  are  still  there.  These  old  stand-bys  reach 
up  their  arms  so  high,  and  their  trunks  are  so  big 
and  straight  and  smooth,  that  nothing  can  despoil 
them.  They  will  stay  there  until  the  end — that 
is,  until  some  merciless  Commissioner  runs  the 
line  of  a  city  street  through  their  roots.  Then 
their  fine  old  bodies  will  be  drawn  and  quartered, 
and  their  sturdy  arms  and  lesser  branches  go  to 
feed  the  fires  of  some  near-by  factory. 

IsTo  ladies  of  high  degree  now  sip  their  tea  be 
neath  their  shade,  with  liveried  servants  about 
the  slender-legged  tables,  as  they  did  in  the  old 
days.  There  are  tables,  of  course — a  dozen  in 
all,  perhaps,  some  in  white  cloths  and  some  in 
bare  tops,  bare  of  everything  except  the  glass  of 
beer — it  depends  very  largely  on  what  one  or 
ders,  and  who  orders  it — but  the  servants  are 
299 


THE    UNDER   DOG 

missing  unless  you  count  Muffles  and  his  stable- 
boy.  Two  of  these  old  aristocrats — I  am  speaking 
of  the  old  trees  now,  not  Muffles,  and  certainly 
not  the  stable-boy — two  giant  elms  (the  same 
that  Washington  tied  his  mare  to  when  they  were 
little) — stand  guard  on  either  side  of  the  back 
porch,  a  wide  veranda  of  a  porch  with  a  honey 
suckle,  its  stem  as  thick  as  your  arm,  and  its 
scraggy,  half -dead  tendrils  plaited  in  and  out  of  the 
palings  and  newly  painted  lattice-work. 

On  Sunday  mornings — and  this  tale  begins  with 
a  Sunday  morning — Muffles  always  shaved  him 
self  on  this  back  porch.  On  these  occasions  he  was 
attired  in  a  pair  of  trousers,  a  pair  of  slippers,  and 
a  red  flannel  undershirt. 

I  am  aware  that  this  is  not  an  extraordinary 
thing  for  a  man  living  in  the  country  to  do  on  a 
Sunday  morning,  and  it  is  not  an  extraordinary 
costume  in  which  to  do  it.  It  was  neither  the 
costume  nor  the  occupation  that  made  the  opera 
tion  notable,  but  the  distinguished  company  who 
sat  around  the  operator  while  it  went  on. 

There  was  the  ex-sheriff — a  large,  bulbous  man 
with  a  jet-black  mustache  hung  under  his  nose,  a 
shirt-collar  cut  low  enough  to  permit  of  his  breath 
ing,  and  a  skin-tight  waistcoat  buttoned  over  a 
rotundity  that  rested  on  his  knees.  He  had  rest 
less,  quick  eyes,  and,  before  his  "ex"  life  began 
and  his  avoirdupois  gained  upon  him,  restless, 
quick  fingers  with  steel  springs  inside  of  them — 
300 


MUFFLES— THE    BAR-KEEP 

good  fingers  for  handling  the  particular  people  he 
"wanted." 

Then  there  was  the  "Big  Pipe"  contractor — a 
lean  man  with  half -moon  whiskers,  a  red,  weather- 
beaten,  knotted  face,  bushy  gray  eyebrows,  and  a 
clean-shaven  mouth  that  looked  when  shut  like  a 
healed  scar.  On  Sunday  this  magnate  wore  a  yel 
low  diamond  pin  and  sat  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 

There  could  be  found,  too,  now  and  then,  tilted 
back  on  their  chairs,  two  or  three  of  the  light- 
fingered  gentry  from  the  race-course  near  by — pale, 
consumptive-looking  men,  with  field-glasses  hung 
over  their  shoulders  and  looking  like  bank-clerks, 
they  were  so  plainly  and  neatly  dressed;  as  well 
as  some  of  the  less  respectable  neighbors,  besides 
a  few  intimate  personal  friends  like  myself. 

While  Muffles  shaved  and  the  group  about  him 
discussed  the  several  ways — some  of  them  rather 
shady,  I'm  afraid — in  which  they  and  their  con 
stituents  earned  their  daily  bread,  the  stable-boy 
• — he  was  a  street  waif,  picked  up  to  keep  him 
from  starving — served  the  beverages.  Muffles  had 
no  Sunday  license,  of  course,  but  a  little  thing 
like  that  never  disturbed  Muffles  or  his  friends — 
not  with  the  Captain  of  the  Precinct  as  part 
owner. 

My  intimacy  with  Muffles  dated  from  a  visit  I 
had  made  him  a  year  before,  when  I  stopped  in 
one  of  my  sketching-tramps  to  get  something  cool 
ing.  A  young  friend  of  mine — a  musician — was 
301 


THE    UNDER   DOG 

with  me.  Muffles's  garden  was  filled  with  visitors ; 
some  celebration  or  holiday  had  called  the  people 
out.  Muffles,  in  expectation,  had  had  the  piano 
tuned  and  had  sent  to  town  for  an  orchestra  of 
three.  The  cornet  and  bass-viol  had  put  in  an  ap 
pearance,  but  the  pianist  had  been  lost  in  the 
shuffle. 

"De  bloke  ain't  showed  up  and  we  can't  git 
nothin'  out  o'  de  fish-horn  and  de  scrape — see  ?" 
was  the  way  Muffles  put  it. 

My  friend  was  a  graduate  of  the  Conservatoire, 
an  ex-stroke,  crew  of  '91,  owned  a  pair  of  shears 
which  he  used  twice  a  year  in  the  vaults  of  a  down 
town  bank,  and  breakfasted  every  day  at  twelve — 
but  none  of  these  things  had  spoiled  him. 

"Don't  worry,"  he  said;  "put  a  prop  under 
your  piano-lid  and  bring  me  a  chair.  I'll  work 
the  ivories  for  you." 

He  played  till  midnight,  drank  his  free  beers 
between  each  selection,  his  face  as  grave  as  a  judge- 
except  when  he  would  wink  at  me  out  of  the  corner 
of  his  eye  to  show  his  intense  enjoyment  of  the 
whole  situation.  You  can  judge  of  its  effect  on 
the  audience  when  I  tell  you  that  one  young  girl 
in  a  pink  shirt-waist  was  so  overcome  with  emo 
tion  and  so  sorry  for  the  sad  young  man  who  had 
to  earn  his  living  in  any  such  way,  that  she  laid 
a  ten-cent  piece  on  the  piano  within  reach  of  my 
friend's  fingers.  The  smile  of  intense  gratitude 
which  permeated  his  face — a  "thank-God-you- 
302 


MUFFLES— THE    BAK-KEEP 

have-saved-me-from-starvation"  smile,  was  part  of 
the  evening's  enjoyment.  He  wears  the  dime  now 
on  his  watch-chain;  he  says  it  is  the  only  money 
he  ever  earned  by  his  music;  to  which  one  of  his 
club-friends  added,  "Or  in  your  life." 

Since  that  time  I  have  been  persona  grata  to 
Muffles.  Since  that  time,  too,  I  have  studied  him 
at  close  range:  on  snowy  days — for  I  like  my 
tramps  in  winter,  with  the  Bronx  a  ribbon  of 
white,  even  though  it  may  be  too  cold  to  paint — 
as  well  as  my  outings  on  Sunday  summer  morn 
ings  when  I  sit  down  with  his  other  friends  to 
watch  Muffles  shave. 

On  one  of  these  days  I  found  a  thin,  cadaverous, 
long-legged,  long-armed  young  man  behind  the 
bar.  He  had  yellow-white  hair  that  rested  on  his 
head  like  a  window-mop,  whitey  blue  eyes,  and  a 
pasty  complexion.  When  he  craned  his  neck  in 
his  anxiety  to  get  my  order  right,  I  felt  that  his 
giraffe  throat  reached  down  to  his  waist-line  and 
that  all  of  it  would  come  out  of  his  collar  if  I 
didn't  make  up  my  mind  at  once  "what  it  should 
be." 

"Who's  he,  Muffles  ?"  I  asked. 

"Dat's  me  new  bar-keep.  I've  chucked  me 
job." 

"What's  his  name?" 

"Bowser." 

"Where  did  you  get  him  ?" 

"Blew  in  here  one  night  las'  month,  purty  nigh 
303 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

froze — out  of  a  job  and  hungry.  De  Missus  got 
soft  on  him — she's  dat  kind,  ye  know.  Yer 
oughter  seen  him  eat !  Well,  I  guess !  Been  in  a 
littingrapher's  shop — ye  kin  tell  by  his  fingers. 
Say,  Bowser,  show  de  gentleman  yer  fingers." 

Bowser  held  them  up  as  quickly  as  if  the  order 
had  come  down  the  barrel  of  a  Winchester. 

"And  ye  oughter  see  him  draw.  Gee!  if  I 
<xrald  draw  like  him  I  wouldn't  do  nothin'  else. 
But  I  ain't  never  had  nothin'  in  my  head  like  that. 
A  feller's  got  to  have  sumpin'  besides  school-larnin' 
to  draw  like  him.  Now  you're  a  sketch-artist, 
and  know.  Why,  he  drawed  de  Sheriff  last  Sun 
day  sittin'  in  de  porch  huggin'  his  bitters,  to  de 
life.  Say,  Bowse,  show  de  gentleman  de  picter 
ye  drawed  of  de  Sheriff." 

Bowser  slipped  his  hand  under  the  bar  and 
brought  out  a  charcoal  sketch  of  a  black  mustache 
surrounded  by  a  pair  of  cheeks,  a  treble  chin,  and 
•two  dots  of  eyes. 

"Kin  hear  him  speak,  can't  ye  ?  And  dat  ain't 
nothin'  to  de  way  he  kin  print.  Say,  Bowse" — 
the  intimacy  grew  as  the  young  man's  talents 
loomed  up  in  Muffles's  mind — "tell  de  gentleman 
what  de  boss  said  'bout  yer  printin'." 

"Said  I  could  print  all  right,  only  there  warn't 
no  more  work."  There  was  a  modesty  in  Bowser's 
tone  that  gave  me  a  better  opinion  of  him. 

"Said  ye  could  print  all  right,  did  he  ?  Course 
he  did — and  no  guff  in  it,  neither.  Say,  Missus" 
304 


MUFFLES— THE    BAK-KEEP 

— and  he  turned  to  his  wife,  who  had  just  come  in, 
the  youngest  child  in  her  arms.  She  weighed 
twice  as  much  as  Muffles — one  of  those  shapeless 
women  with  a  kindly,  Alderney  face,  and  hair 
never  in  place,  who  lets  everything  go  from  collar 
to  waist-line. 

"Say,  Missus,  didn't  de  Sheriff  say  dat  was  a 
perfec'  likeness  ?"  And  he  handed  it  to  her. 

The  wife  laughed,  passed  it  back  to  Muffles  and, 
with  a  friendly  nod  to  me,  kept  on  to  the  kitchen. 

"Bar-room  ain't  no  place  for  women,"  Muffles 
remarked  in  an  undertone  when  his  wife  had  dis 
appeared.  "Dat's  why  de  Missus  ain't  never 
'round.  And  when  de  kifb  grow  up  we're  goin'  to 
quit,  see  ?  Dat's  what  ue  Missus  says,  and  what 
she  says  goes !" 

All  that  summer  the  Shady  Side  prospered. 
More  tables  were  set  out  under  the  trees ;  Bowser 
got  an  assistant;  Muffles  wore  better  clothes;  the 
Missus  combed  out  her  hair  and  managed  to  wear 
a  tight-fitting  dress,  and  it  was  easy  to  see  that 
fame  and  fortune  awaited  Muffles — or  what  he 
considered  its  equivalent.  Muffles  entertained  his 
friends  as  usual  on  the  back  porch  on  Sunday 
mornings,  but  he  shaved  himself  upstairs  and 
wore  an  alpaca  coat  and  boiled  shirt  over  his  red 
flannel  underwear.  The  quality  of  the  company 
improved,  too — or  retrograded,  according  to  the 
point  of  view.  Now  and  then  a  pair  of  deer,  with 
long  tails  and  manes,  hitched  to  a  spider-web  of  a 
305 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

wagon,  would  drive  up  to  the  front  entrance  and 
a  gentleman  wearing  a  watch-chain,  a  solitaire 
diamond  ring,  a  polished  silk  hat,  and  a  white 
overcoat  with  big  pearl  buttons,  would  order  "a 
pint  of  fiz"  and  talk  in  an  undertone  to  Muffles 
while  he  drank  it.  Often  a  number  of  these  com 
binations  would  meet  in  Muffles's  back  room  and  a 
quiet  little  game  would  last  until  daylight.  The 
orders  then  were  for  quarts,  not  pints.  On  one 
of  these  nights  the  Captain  of  the  Precinct  was 
present  in  plain  clothes.  I  learned  this  from  Bow 
ser — from  behind  his  hand. 

One  night  Muffles  was  awakened  by  a  stone 
thrown  at  his  bedroom  window.  He  went  down 
stairs  and  found  two  men  in  slouch  hats ;  one  had 
a  black  carpet-bag.  They  talked  some  time  to 
gether,  and  the  three  went  down  into  the  cellar. 
When  they  came  up  the  bag  was  empty. 

The  next  morning  one  of  those  spider-wheeled 
buggies,  driven  by  one  of  the  silk  hat  and  pearl- 
buttoned  gentlemen,  accompanied  by  a  friend, 
stopped  at  the  main  gate.  When  they  drove  away 
they  carried  the  contents  of  the  black  carpet-bag 
stowed  away  under  the  seat. 

The  following  day,  about  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  a  man  in  a  derby  hat  and  with  a  pair 
of  handcuffs  in  his  outside  pocket  showed  Muffles 
a  paper  he  to«k  from  his  coat,  and  the  two  went 
off  to  the  city.  When  Muffles  returned  that  same 
night — I  had  heard  he  was  in  trouble  and  waited 
306 


MUFFLES— THE    BAK-KEEP 

for  his  return — he  nodded  to  me  with  a  smile,  and 
said: 

"It's  all  right    Pipes  went  bail." 

He  didn't  stop,  but  walked  through  to  the  back 
room.  There  he  put  his  arms  around  his  wife. 
She  had  sat  all  day  at  the  window  watching  for 
his  return,  so  Bowser  told  me. 

II 

One  crisp,  cool  October  day,  when  the  maples 
blazed  scarlet  and  the  Bronx  was  a  band  of  pol 
ished  silver  and  the  hoar-frost  glistened  in  the 
meadows,  I  turned  into  the  road  that  led  to  the 
Shady  Side.  The  outer  gate  was  shut,  and  all 
the  blinds  on  the  front  of  the  house  were  closed. 
I  put  my  hand  on  the  old  brass  knocker  and 
rapped  softly.  Bowser  opened  the  door.  His 
eyes  looked  as  if  he  had  not  slept  for  a  week. 

"What's  the  matter — anybody  sick?" 

"No — dead !"  and  he  burst  into  tears. 

"Not  Muffles!" 

"No — the  Missus." 

"When?" 

"Last  night.     De  boss  is  inside,  all  broke  up." 

I  tiptoed  across  the  hall  and  into  the  bar-room. 
He  was  sitting  by  a  table,  his  head  in  his  hands, 
his  back  toward  me. 

"Muffles,  this  is  terrible !    How  did  it  happen  ?" 

He  straightened  up  and  held  out  his  hand, 
307 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

guiding  me  to  a  seat  beside  him.  For  some  min 
utes  lie  did  not  speak.  Then  he  said,  slowly,  ignor 
ing  my  question,  the  tears  streaming  down  his 
cheeks : 

"Dis  ends  me.  I  ain't  no  good  widout  de 
Missus.  You  thought  maybe  when  ye  were  'round 
that  I  was  a-runnin'  things;  you  thought  maybe 
it  was  me  that  was  lookin'  after  de  kids  and  keep- 
in'  'em  clean;  you  thought  maybe  when  I  got 
pinched  and  they  come  near  jugging  me  that  some 
of  me  pals  got  me  clear — you  don't  know  nothin' 
'bout  it.  De  Missus  did  that,  like  she  done  every 
thing." 

He  stopped  as  if  to  get  his  breath,  and  put  his 
head  in  his  hands  again — rocking  himself  to  and 
fro  like  a  man  in  great  physical  pain.  I  sat  silent 
beside  him.  It  is  difficult  to  decide  what  to  do  or 
say  to  a  man  under  such  circumstances.  His  refer 
ence  to  some  former  arrest  arose  in  my  mind,  and 
so,  in  a  perfunctory  way — more  for  something  to 
say  than  for  any  purpose  of  prying  into  his  former 
life — I  asked: 

"Was  that  the  time  the  Pipe  Contractor  went 
bail  for  you  ?" 

He  moved  his  head  slightly  and  without  raising 
it  from  his  hands  looked  at  me  from  over  his 
clasped  fingers. 

"What,  dat  scrape  a  month  ago,  when  I  hid  dem 
goods  in  de  cellar?  Naw!  Dat  was  two  pals  o' 
mine.  Dey  was  near  pinched  and  I  helped  'em 
308 


MUFFLES— THE    BAR-KEEP 

out.  Somebody  give  it  away.  But  dat  ain't  noth- 
in' — Cap'n  took  care  o'  dat.  Dis  was  one  o'  me 
own  five  year  ago.  What's  goin'  to  become  o'  de 
kids  now  ?"  And  he  burst  out  crying  again. 


Ill 

A  year  passed. 

I  had  been  painting  along  the  Thames,  lying  in 
my  punt,  my  face  up  to  the  sky,  or  paddling  in 
and  out  among  the  pond-lilies.  I  had  idled,  too, 
on  the  lagoons  of  my  beloved  Venice,  listening  to 
Luigi  crooning  the  songs  he  loves  so  well,  the  soft 
air  about  me,  the  plash  of  my  gondolier's  oar 
wrinkling  the  sheen  of  the  silver  sea.  It  had  been 
a  very  happy  summer ;  full  of  color  and  life.  The 
brush  had  worked  easily,  the  weather  had  lent  a 
helping  hand;  all  had  been  peace  and  quiet. 
Ofttimes,  when  I  was  happiest,  somehow  Muffles's 
solitary  figure  rose  before  me,  the  tears  coursing 
down  his  cheeks,  and  with  it  that  cold  silence — a 
silence  which  only  a  dead  body  brings  to  a  house 
and  which  ends  only  with  its  burial. 

The  week  after  I  landed — it  was  in  November, 
a  day  when  the  crows  flew  in  long  wavy  lines  and 
the  heavy  white  and  gray  clouds  pressed  close  upon 
the  blue  vista  of  the  hills — I  turned  and  crossed 
through  the  wTood,  my  feet  sinking  into  the  soft 
carpet  of  its  dead  leaves.  Soon  I  caught  a  glimpse 
309 


THE    UNDER   DOG 

of  the  chimneys  of  Shady  Side  thrust  above  the 
evergreens;  a  curl  of  smoke  was  floating  upward, 
filling  the  air  with  a  filmy  haze.  At  this  sign  of 
life  within,  my  heart  gave  a  bound. 

Muffles  was  still  there ! 

When  I  swung  back  the  gate  and  mounted  the 
porch  a  feeling  of  uncertainty  came  over  me.  The 
knocker  was  gone,  and  so  was  the  sign.  The  old- 
fashioned  window-casings  had  been  replaced  by  a 
modern  door  newly  painted  and  standing  partly 
open.  Perhaps  Muffles  had  given  up  the  bar  and 
was  living  here  alone  with  his  children. 

I  pushed  open  the  door  and  stepped  into  the  old- 
fashioned  hall.  This,  too,  had  undergone  changes. 
The  lantern  was  missing,  and  some  modern  furni 
ture  stood  against  the  walls.  The  bar  where  Bow 
ser  had  dispensed  his  beverages  and  from  behind 
which  he  had  brought  his  drawings  had  been  re 
placed  by  a  long  mahogany  counter  with  marble 
top,  the  sideboard  being  filled  with  cut  glass  and 
the  more  expensive  appointments  of  a  modern  es 
tablishment.  The  tables  and  chairs  were  also  of 
mahogany ;  and  a  new  red  carpet  covered  the  floor. 
The  proprietor  was  leaning  against  the  counter 
playing  with  his  watch-chain — a  short  man  with  a 
bald  head.  A  few  guests  were  sitting  about,  read 
ing  or  smoking. 

"What's  become  of  Mulford,"  I  asked;  "Dick 
Mulford,  who  used  to  be  here  2" 

The  man  shook  his  head. 
310 


MUFFLES— THE    BAK-KEEP 

"Why,  yes,  you  must  have  known  him — some 
of  his  friends  called  him  Muffles." 

The  man  continued  to  shake  his  head.  Then  he 
answered,  carelessly : 

"I've  only  been  here  six  months — another  man 
had  it  before  me.  He  put  these  fixtures  in." 

"Maybe  you  can  tell  me  ?" — and  I  turned  to  the 
bar-keeper. 

"Guess  he  means  the  feller  who  blew  in  here 
first  month  we  come,"  the  bar-keeper  answered, 
addressing  his  remark  to  the  proprietor.  "He 
said  he'd  been  runnin'  the  place  once." 

"Oh,  you  mean  that  guy !  Yes,  I  got  it  now," 
answered  the  proprietor,  with  some  animation,  as 
if  suddenly  interested.  "He  come  in  the  week  we 
opened — worst-lookin'  bum  you  ever  see — toes  out 
of  his  shoes,  coat  all  torn.  Said  he  had  no  money 
and  asked  for  something  to  eat.  Billy  here  was 
goin'  to  fire  him  out  when  one  of  my  customers 
said  he  knew  him.  I  don't  let  no  man  go  hungry 
if  I  can  help  it,  and  so  I  sent  him  downstairs  and 
cook  filled  him  up.  After  he  had  all  he  wanted 
to  eat  he  asked  Billy  if  he  might  go  upstairs  into 
the  front  bedroom.  I  don't  want  nobody  prowlin* 
'round — not  that  kind,  anyhow — but  he  begged  so 
I  sent  Billy  up  with  him.  What  did  he  do,  Billy  ? 
You  saw  him."  And  he  turned  to  his  assistant. 

"Didn't  do  nothin'  but  just  look  in  the  door. 
He  held  on  to  the  jamb  and  I  thought  he  was 
goin'  to  fall.  Then  he  said  he  was  much  obliged, 
311 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

and  He  walked  downstairs  again  and  out  the  door 
cryin'  like  a  baby,  and  I  ain't  seen  him  since." 

Another  year  passed.  To  the  picture  of  the 
man  sitting  alone  in  that  silent,  desolate  room  was 
added  the  picture  of  the  man  leaning  against  the 
jamb  of  the  door,  the  tears  streaming  down  his 
face.  After  this  I  constantly  caught  myself  peer 
ing  into  the  faces  of  the  tramps  I  would  meet  in 
the  street.  Whenever  I  walked  before  the  benches 
of  Madison  Park  or  loitered  along  the  shady 
paths  of  Union  Square,  I  would  stop,  my  eye  run 
ning  over  the  rows  of  idle  men  reading  the  adver 
tisements  in  the  morning  papers  or  asleep  on  the 
seats.  Often  I  would  pause  for  a  moment  as  some 
tousled  vagabond  would  pass  me,  hoping  that  I 
had  found  my  old-time  friend,  only  to  be  disap 
pointed.  Once  I  met  Bowser  on  his  way  to  his 
work,  a  roll  of  theatre-bills  under  his  arm.  He 
had  gone  back  to  his  trade  and  was  working  in  a 
shop  on  Fourteenth  Street.  Sis  account  of  what 
had  happened  after  the  death  of  "the  Missus"  only 
confirmed  my  fears.  Muffles  had  gone  on  from 
bad  to  worse;  the  place  had  been  sold  out  by  his 
partners;  Muffles  had  become  a  drunkard,  and, 
worse  than  all,  the  indictment  against  him  had 
been  pressed  for  trial  despite  the  Captain's  ef 
forts,  and  he  had  been  sent  to  the  Island  for  a 
year  for  receiving  and  hiding  stolen  goods.  He 
had  been  offered  his  freedom  by  the  District  At 
torney  if  he  would  give  up  the  names  of  the  two 
312 


MUFFLES— THE   BAR-KEEP 

men  who  had  stolen  the  silverware,  but  he  said 
he'd  rather  "serve  time  than  give  his  pals  away," 
and  they  sent  him  up.  Some  half -orphan  asylum 
had  taken  the  children.  One  thing  Bowser  knew 
and  he  would  "give  it  to  me  straight,"  and  he 
didn't  care  who  heard  it,  and  that  was  that  there 
was  "a  good  many  gospil  sharps  running  church- 
mills  that  warn't  half  as  white  as  Dick  Mulford — 
not  by  a  d sight." 

One  morning  I  was  trying  to  cross  Broadway, 
dodging  the  trolleys  that  swirled  around  the 
curves,  when  a  man  laid  his  hand  on  my  arm  with 
a  grip  that  hurt  me. 

It  was  Muffles ! 

~Not  a  tramp;  not  a  ragged,  blear-eyed  vaga 
bond — older,  more  serious,  the  laugh  gone  out  of 
his  eyes,  the  cheeks  pale  as  if  from  long  confine 
ment.  Dressed  in  dark  clothes,  his  face  clean 
shaven;  linen  neat,  a  plain  black  tie — the  hat 
worn  straight,  not  slouched  over  his  eyes  with  a 
rakish  cant  as  in  the  old  days. 

"My  God!  but  I'm  glad  to  see  ye,"  he  cried. 
"Come  over  in  the  Square  and  let's  sit  down." 

He  was  too  excited  to  let  me  ask  him  any  ques 
tions.  It  all  poured  out  of  him  in  a  torrent,  his 
hand  on  my  knee  most  of  the  time. 

"Oh,  but  I  had  it  tough !    Been  up  for  a  year. 

You  remember  about  it,  the  time  Pipes  went  bail. 

I  didn't  git  none  o'  the  swag;  it  warn't  my  job, 

but  I  seed  'em  through.    But  that  warn't  nothin'. 

313 


THE    UNDER   DOG 

It  was  de  Missus  what  killed  me.  Hadn't  been 
for  de  kids  I'd  been  off  the  dock  many  a  time. 
Fust  month  or  two  I  didn't  draw  a  sober  breath. 
I  couldn't  stand  it.  Soon's  I'd  come  to  I'd  git  to 
thinkin'  agin  and  then  it  was  all  up  wid  me.  Then 
Pipes  and  de  Sheriff  went  back  on  me  and  I  didn't 
care.  Bowser  stuck  to  me  the  longest.  He  got  de 
kids  took  care  of.  He  don't  know  I'm  out,  or  he'd 
turn  up.  I  tried  to  find  him,  but  nobody  don't 
know  where  he  was  a-workin' — none  of  de  bar 
rooms  I've  tried.  Oh,  but  it  was  tough !  But  it's 
all  right  now,  d'ye  hear  ?  All  right !  I  got  a  job  up 
in  Harlem,  see?  I'm  gittin'  orders  for  coal." 
And  he  touched  a  long  book  that  stuck  out  of  his 
breast-pocket.  "And  I've  got  a  room  near  where 
I  work.  And  I  tell  ye  another  thing,"  and  his 
hand  sought  mine,  and  a  peculiar  light  came  into 
his  eyes,  "I  got  de  kids  wid  me.  You  just  oughter 
see  de  boy — legs  on  him  thick  as  your  arm !  I  tell 
ye  that's  a  comfort,  and  don't  you  forgit  it.  And 
de  little  gal !  Ain't  like  her  mother  ?  what ! — well, 
I  should  smile!" 


314 


HIS  LAST  CENT 


HIS   LAST  CENT 

Jack  Waldo  stood  in  his  studio  gazing  up  at  the 
ceiling,  or,  to  be  more  exact,  at  a  Venetian  church- 
lamp  which  he  had  just  hung  and  to  which  he  had 
just  attached  a  red  silk  tassel  bought  that  morn 
ing  of  a  bric-a-brac  dealer  whose  shop  was  in  the 
next  street  There  was  a  bare  spot  in  that  corner 
of  his  sumptuously  appointed  room  which  offend 
ed  Waldo's  sensitive  taste — a  spot  needing  a  touch 
of  yellow  brass  and  a  note  of  red — and  the  silk 
tassel  completed  the  color-scheme.  The  result  was 
a  combination  which  delighted  his  soul ;  Jack  had 
a  passion  for  having  his  soul  delighted  and  an  in 
satiable  thirst  for  the  things  that  did  the  delight 
ing,  and  could  no  more  resist  the  temptation  to 
possess  them  when  exposed  for  sale  than  a  con 
firmed  drunkard  could  resist  a  favorite  beverage 
held  under  his  nose.  That  all  of  these  precious 
objects  of  bigotry  and  virtue  were  beyond  his 
means,  and  that  most  of  them  then  enlivening  his 
two  perfectly  appointed  rooms  were  still  unpaid 
for,  never  worried  Jack. 

"That  fellow's  place,"  he  would  say  of  some 
dealer,  "is  euch  a  jumble  and  so  dark  that  nobody 
can  see  what  he's  got.  Ought  to  be  very  grateful 
317 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

to  me  that  I  put  'em  where  people  could  see  'em. 
If  I  can  pay  for  'em,  all  right,  and  if  I  can't,  let 
him  take  'em  hack.  He  always  knows  where  to 
find  'em.  I'm  not  going  to  have  an  auction." 

This  last  course  of  "taking  his  purchases  back" 
had  been  followed  by  a  good  many  of  Jack's  cred 
itors,  who,  at  last,  tired  out,  had  driven  up  a  furni 
ture  van  and  carted  the  missing  articles  home 
again.  Others,  more  patient,  dunned  persistently 
and  continually — every  morning  some  one  of 
them — until  Jack,  roused  to  an  extra  effort, 
painted  pot-boilers  (portrait  of  a  dog,  or  a  child 
with  a  rabbit,  or  Uncle  John's  exact  image  from 
a  daguerrotype  many  years  in  the  family)  up  to 
the  time  the  debt  was  discharged  and  the  precious 
'bit  of  old  Spanish  leather  or  the  Venetian  chest  or 
Sixteenth  Century  chair  became  his  very  own  for 
all  time  to  come. 

This  "last-moment"  act  of  Jack's — this  re 
prieve  habit  of  saving  his  financial  life,  as  the 
noose  was  being  slipped  over  his  bankrupt  neck — 
instead  of  strangling  Jack's  credit  beyond  repair, 
really  improved  it.  The  dealer  generally  added 
an  extra  price  for  interest  and  the  trouble  of  col 
lecting  (including  cartage  both  ways),  knowing 
that  his  property  was  perfectly  safe  as  long  as  it 
stayed  in  Jack's  admirably  cared-for  studio,  and 
few  of  them  ever  refused  the  painter  anything  he 
wanted.  When  inquiries  were  made  as  to  his 
financial  standing  the  report  was  invariably, 
318 


HIS  LAST   CENT 

"Honest  but  slow — he'll  pay  some  time  and  some 
how,"  and  the  ghost  of  a  bad  debt  was  laid. 

The  slower  the  better  for  Jack.  The  delay 
helped  his  judgment.  The  things  he  didn't  want 
after  living  with  them  for  months  (Jack's  test  of 
immortality)  he  was  quite  willing  they  should 
cart  away ;  the  things  he  loved  he  would  go  hungry 
to  hold  on  to. 

This  weeding-out  process  had  left  a  collection 
of  curios,  stuffs,  hangings,  brass,  old  furniture, 
pottery,  china,  costumes  and  the  like,  around 
Jack's  rooms,  some  of  which  would  have  enriched 
a  museum:  a  Louis  XVI.  cabinet,  for  instance, 
that  had  been  stolen  from  the  Trianon  (what  a 
lot  of  successful  thieves  there  were  in  those  days)  ; 
the  identical  sofa  that  the  Pompadour  used  in  her 
afternoon  naps,  and  the  undeniable  curtain  that 
covered  her  bed,  and  which  now  hung  between 
Jack's  two  rooms. 

In  addition  to  these  ancient  and  veritable  "an 
tiques"  there  was  a  collection  of  equally  veritable 
"moderns,"  two  of  which  had  arrived  that  morn 
ing  from  an  out-of-town  exhibition  and  which 
were  at  this  precise  moment  leaning  against  the 
legs  of  an  old  Spanish  chair.  One  had  had  three 
inches  of  gilt  moulding  knocked  off  its  frame  in 
transit,  and  both  bore  Jack's  signature  in  the 
lower  left-hand  corner. 

"Didn't  want  'em,  eh?"  cried  Jack,  throwing 
himself  on  to  the  divan,  temporarily  exhausted 
319 


THE   UNDER    DOG 

with,  the  labor  of  hanging  the  lamp  and  attaching 
the  tassel.  "Wanted  something  painted  with 
darning-needle  brushes — little  tooty-wooty  stuff 
that  everybody  can  understand.  'See  the  barn 
door  and  the  nails  in  the  planks  and  all  them 
knots !'  " — Jack  was  on  his  feet  now,  imitating  the 
drawl  of  the  country  art-buyer — "  'Ain't  them 
natural!  Why,  Maria,  if  you  look  close  ye  can 
see  jes'  where  the  ants  crawl  in  and  out.  My, 
ain't  that  wonderful !' ' 

These  remarks  were  not  addressed  to  the  offend 
ing  canvas  nor  to  the  imaginary  countryman,  but 
to  his  chum,  Sam  Ruggles,  who  sat  hunched  up  in 
a  big  armchair  with  gilt  flambeaux  on  each  corner 
of  its  high  back — it  being  a  holiday  and  Sam's 
time  his  own,  Ruggles  was  entry  clerk  in  a  down 
town  store,  lived  on  fifteen  dollars  a  week,  and  was 
proud  of  it.  His  daily  fear — he  being  of  an  emi 
nently  economical  and  practical  turn  of  mind — 
was  that  Jack  would  one  day  find  either  himself 
tight  shut  in  the  lock-up  in  charge  of  the  jailer  or 
his  belongings  strewed  loose  on  the  sidewalk  and 
in  charge  of  the  sheriff.  They  had  been  college 
mates  together — these  two — and  Sam  loved  Jack 
with  an  affection  in  which  pride  in  his  genius  and 
fear  for  his  welfare  were  so  closely  interwoven, 
that  Sam  found  himself  most  of  the  time  in  a  con 
stantly  unhappy  frame  of  mind.  Why  Jack 
should  continue  to  buy  things  he  couldn't  pay  for, 
instead  of  painting  pictures  which  one  day  some- 
320 


HIS  LAST  CENT 

Tx>dv  would  want,  and  at  fabulous  prices,  too,  was 
one  thing  he  could  never  get  through  his  head. 

"Where  have  those  pictures  been,  Jack?"  in 
quired  Sam,  in  a  sympathetic  tone. 

"Oh,  out  in  one  of  those  God's-free-air  towns 
where  they  are  studying  high  art  and  microbes 
and  Browning — one  of  those  towns  where  you  can 
find  a  woman's  club  on  every  corner  and  not  a 
drop  of  anything  to  drink  outside  of  a  drug-store. 
"\Vliy  aren't  you  a  millionnaire,  Sam,  with  a  gallery 
one  hundred  by  fifty  opening  into  your  conserva 
tory,  and  its  centre  panels  filled  with  the  works  of 
that  distinguished  impressionist,  John  Somerset 
Waldo,  E. A.?" 

"I  shall  be  a  millionnaire  before  you  get  to  be 
E.A.,"  answered  Sam,  with  some  emphasis,  "if 
you  don't  buckle  down  to  work,  old  man,  and  bring 
out  what's  in  you — and  stop  spending  your  allow 
ance  on  a  lot  of  things  that  you  don't  want  any 
more  than  a  cow  wants  two  tails.  Now,  what  in 
the  name  of  common-sense  did  you  buy  that 
lamp  for  which  you  have  just  hung?  It  doesn't 
light  anything,  and  if  it  did,  this  is  a  garret,  not 
a  church.  To  my  mind  it's  as  much  out  of  place 
here  as  that  brass  coal-hod  you've  got  over  there 
would  be  on  a  cathedral  altar." 

"Samuel  Euggles!"  cried  Jack,  striking  a  the 
atrical  attitude,  "you  talk  like  a  pig-sticker  or  a 
coal-baron.  Your  soul,  Samuel,  is  steeped  in  com 
mercialism;  you  know  not  the  color  that  delights 
321 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

men's  hearts  nor  the  line  that  entrances.  The 
lamp,  my  boy,  is  meat  and  drink  to  me,  and  com 
panionship  and  a  joy  unspeakable.  Your  dull 
soul,  Samuel,  is  clay,  your  meat  is  figures,  and 
your  drink  profit  and  loss;  all  of  which  reminds 
me,  Samuel,  that  it  is  now  two  o'clock  and  that 
the  nerves  of  my  stomach  are  on  a  strike.  Let — 
me — see" — and  he  turned  his  back,  felt  in  his 
pocket,  and  counted  out  some  bills  and  change — 
"Yes,  Sam" — here  his  dramatic  manner  changed 
— "the  account  is  still  good — we  will  now  lunch. 
!N"ot  expensively,  Samuel" — with  another  wave  of 
the  hand — "not  riotously — simply,  and  within  our 
means.  Come,  thou  slave  of  the  desk — eat,  drink, 
and  be  merry,  for  to-morrow  we  die — or  bust, 
Samuel,  which  is  very  nearly  the  same  thing!" 

"Old  John"  at  Solari's  took  their  order — a  por 
ter-house  steak  with  mushrooms,  peas,  cold  aspar 
agus,  a  pint  of  extra  dry — in  honor  of  the  day, 
Jack  insisted,  although  Sam  protested  to  the  verge 
of  discourtesy — together  with  the  usual  assort 
ment  of  small  drinkables  and  long  smokables — a 
Reina  Victoria  each. 

On  the  way  back  to  the  studio  the  two  stopped 
to  look  in  a  shop-window,  when  Jack  gave  a  cry 
of  delight  and  pressed  his  nose  against  the  glass 
to  get  a  better  view  of  a  small  picture  by  Monet 
resting  on  an  easel. 

"By  the  gods,  Sam ! — isn't  that  a  corker !  See 
the  way  those  trees  are  painted !  Look  at  the  air 
322 


HIS  LAST   CENT 

and  light  in  it — not  a  value  out  of  scale — per 
fectly  charming! — charming"  and  he  dived  into 
the  shop  before  Sam  could  check  him. 

In  a  moment  he  was  out  again,  shaking  his 
head,  chewing  his  under-lip,  and  taking  another 
devouring  look  at  the  canvas. 

"What  do  they  want  for  it,  Jack?"  asked  Sam 
— his  standard  of  merit  was  always  the  cost  of  a 
thing. 

"About  half  what  it's  worth — six  hundred  dol 
lars." 

"Whew!"  burst  out  Sam;  "that's  nearly  as 
much  as  I  make  in  a  year.  I  wouldn't  give  five 
dollars  for  it." 

Jack's  face  was  still  pressed  against  the  glass 
of  the  window,  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  canvas. 
He  either  did  not  hear  or  would  not  answer  his 
friend's  criticism. 

"Buy  it,  Jack,"  Sam  continued,  with  a  laugh, 
the  hopelessness  of  the  purchase  making  him  the 
more  insistent.  "Hang  it  under  the  lamp,  old 
man — I'll  pay  for  the  candles." 

"I  would,"  said  Jack,  gravely  and  in  perfect 
seriousness,  "only  the  governor's  allowance  isn't 
due  for  a  week,  and  the  luncheon  took  my  last 
cent." 

The  next  day,  after  business  hours,  Sam,  in  the 

goodness  of  his  heart,  called  to  comfort  Jack  over 

the  loss  of  the  Monet — a  loss  as  real  to  the  painter 

as  if  he  had  once  possessed  it — he  had  in  that  first 

323 


THE   UNDEK   DOG 

-glance  through  the  window-pane;  every  line  and 
tone  and  brush-mark  was  his  own.  So  great  was 
Sam's  sympathy  for  Jack,  and  his  interest  in  the 
matter,  that  he  had  called  upon  a  real  millionnaire 
and  had  made  an  appointment  for  him  to  come  to 
Jack's  studio  that  same  afternoon,  in  the  hope  that 
he  would  leave  part  of  his  wealth  behind  him  in 
exchange  for  one  of  Jack's  masterpieces. 

Sam  found  Jack  flat  on  the  floor,  his  back  sup 
ported  by  a  cushion  propped  against  the  divan. 
He  was  gloating  over  a  small  picture,  its  frame 
tilted  back  on  the  upright  of  his  easel.  It  was  the 
Monet ! 

"Did  he  loan  it  to  you,  old  man?"  Sam  in 
quired. 

"Loan  it  to  me,  you  quill-driver !  No,  I  bought 
it!" 

"For  how  much  ?" 

"Full  price — six  hundred  dollars.  Do  you  sup 
pose  I'd  insult  Monet  by  dickering  for  it  ?" 

"What  have  you  got  to  pay  it  with?"  This 
came  in  a  hopeless  tone. 

"Not  a  cent !  What  difference  does  that  make  ? 
Samuel,  you  interest  me.  Why  is  it  your  soul 
never  rises  above  dollars  and  cents  ?" 

"But,  Jack — you  can't  take  his  property 
and " 

"I  can't — can't  I?  His  property!  Do  you  sup 
pose  Monet  painted  it  to  please  that  one-eyed, 
double-jointed  dealer,  who  don't  know  a  picture 
324 


from  a  hole  in  the  ground !  Monet  painted  it  for 
me — me,  Sanrael — "ME — who  gets  more  comfort 
out  of  it  than  a  dozen  dealers — ME — and  that  part 
of  the  human  race  who  know  a  good  thing  when 
they  see  it.  You  don't  belong  to  it,  SamueL 
What's  six  hundred  or  six  millions  to  do  with  it  ? 
It's  got  no  price,  and  never  will  have  any  price. 
It's  a  work  of  art,  Samuel — a  work  of  art.  That's 
one  thing  you  don't  understand  and  never  will." 

"But  he  paid  his  money  for  it  and  it's  not 
right " 

"Of  course — that's  the  only  good  thing  he  has 
done — paid  for  it  so  that  it  could  get  over  here 
where  I  could  just  wallow  in  it.  Get  down  here, 
you  heathen,  take  off  your  shoes  and  bow  three 
times  to  the  floor  and  then  feast  your  eyes.  You 
think  you've  seen  landscapes  before,  but  you 
haven't.  You've  only  seen  fifty  cents'"  worth  of 
good  canvas  spoiled  by  ten  cents'  worth  of  paint. 
I  put  it  that  way,  Samuel,  because  that's  the  only 
way  you'll  understand  it.  Look  at  it  I  Did  you 
ever  see  such  a  sky  ?  Why,  it's  like  a  slash  of  light 
across  a  mountain-pool!  I  tell  you — Samuel — 
that's  a  masterpiece !" 

While  they  were  discussing  the  merits  of  the 
landscape  and  the  demerits  of  the  transaction 
there  came  a  knock  at  the  door  and  the  Moneybags 
walked  in.  Before  he  opened  his  lips  Jack  had 
taken  his  measure.  He  was  one  of  those  connois 
seurs  who  know  it  all.  The  town  is  full  of  them. 
325  i 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

A  short  connoisseur  with  a  red  face — red  in  spots 
— close-clipped  gray  hair  that  stood  up  on  his  head 
like  a  polishing  brush,  gold  eyeglasses  attached  to 
a  wide  black  ribbon,  and  a  scissored  mustache.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  faultlessly  fitting  serge  suit  en 
livened  by  a  nankeen  waistcoat  supporting  a  gold 
watch-chain.  The  fingers  of  one  hand  clutched  a 
palm-leaf  fan;  the  fingers  of  the  other  were  ex 
tended  toward  Jack.  He  had  known  Jack's  gover 
nor  for  years,  and  so  a  too  formal  introduction  was 
unnecessary. 

"Show  me  what  you've  got,"  he  began,  "the 
latest,  understand.  Wife  wants  something  to 
hang  over  the  sideboard.  You've  been  doing  some 
new  things,  I  hear  from  Ruggles." 

The  tone  of  the  request  grated  on  Jack,  who 
had  risen  to  his  feet  the  moment  "His  Finance" 
(as  he  insisted  on  calling  him  afterward  to  Sam) 
had  opened  the  door.  He  felt  instantly  that  the 
atmosphere  of  his  sanctum  had,  to  a  certain  ex 
tent,  been  polluted.  But  that  Sam's  eyes  were 
upon  him  he  would  have  denied  point-blank  that 
he  had  a  single  canvas  of  any  kind  for  sale,  and 
so  closed  the  incident. 

Sam  saw  the  wavering  look  in  his  friend's  face 
and  started  in  to  overhaul  a  rack  of  unframed 
pictures  with  their  faces  turned  to  the  wall. 
These  he  placed  one  after  the  other  on  the  ledge 
of  the  easel  and  immediately  above  the  Monet, 
Tvhich  still  kept  its  place  on  the  floor,  its  sunny 
326 


HIS  LAST   CENT 

face  gazing  up  at  the  shopkeeper,  his  clerk,  and  his 
customer. 

"This  the  newest  one  you've  got?"  asked  the 
millionnaire,  in  the  same  tone  he  would  have  used 
to  his  tailor,  as  he  pointed  to  a  picture  of  a  strip  of 
land  between  sea  and  sky — one  of  those  uncertain 
landscapes  that  a  man  is  righteously  excused  for 
hanging  upside  down. 

"Yes,"  said  Jack,  with  a  grave  face,  "right  off 
the  ice." 

Sam  winced,  but  "His  Finance"  either  did  not 
hear  it  or  supposed  it  was  some  art-slang  common 
to  such  a  place. 

"This  another  ?"  he  inquired,  fixing  his  glasses 
in  place  and  bending  down  closer  to  the  Monet. 

"No — that's  out  of  another  refrigerator,"  re 
marked  Jack,  carelessly — not  a  smile  on  his 
face. 

"Rather  a  neat  thing,"  continued  the  Money 
bags.  "Looks  just  like  a  place  up  in  Somesbury 
where  I  was  born — same  old  pasture.  What's  the 
price  ?" 

"It  isn't  for  sale,"  answered  Jack,  in  a  decided 
tone. 

"Not  for  sale?" 

"No." 

"Well,  I  rather  like  it,"  and  he  bent  down 
closer,  "and,  if  you  can  fix  a  figure,  I  might " 

"I  can't  fix  a  figure,  for  it  isn't  for  sale.     I 
didn't  paint  it — it's  one  of  Monet's." 
327 


THE    UNDER   DOG 

"Belongs  to  you — don't  it  ?" 

"Yes — belongs  to  me." 

"Well,  how  about  a  thousand  dollars  for  it?" 

Sam's  heart  leaped  to  his  throat,  but  Jack's  face 
never  showed  a  wrinkle. 

"Thanks;  much  obliged,  but  I'll  hold  on  to  it 
for  a  while.  I'm  not  through  with  it  yet." 

"If  you  decide  to  sell  it  will  you  let  me  know  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jack,  grimly,  and  picking  up  the 
canvas  and  carrying  it  across  the  room,  he  turned 
its  face  to  the  wall. 

While  Sam  was  bowing  the  millionnaire  out 
(there  was  nothing  but  the  Monet,  of  course,  which 
he  wanted  now  that  he  couldn't  buy  it),  Jack  occu 
pied  the  minutes  in  making  a  caricature  of  His 
Finance  on  a  fresh  canvas. 

Sam's  opening  sentences  on  his  return,  out  of 
breath  with  his  run  back  up  the  three  flights  of 
stairs,  were  not  complimentary.  They  began  by 
impeaching  Jack's  intelligence  in  terms  more  pro 
fane  than  polite,  and  ended  in  the  fervent  hope 
that  he  make  an  instantaneous  visit  to  His  Satanic 
Majesty. 

In  the  midst  of  this  discussion — in  which  one 
side  roared  his  displeasure  and  the  other  answered 
in  pantomime  between  shouts  of  his  own  laughter 
— there  came  another  knock  at  the  door,  and  the 
owner  of  the  Monet  walked  in.  He,  too,  was  in  a 
disturbed  state  of  mind.  He  had  heard  some 
things  during  the  day  bearing  directly  on  Jack's 
328 


HIS  LAST   CENT 

credit,  -and  had  brought  a  bill  with  him  for  the 
value  of  the  picture. 

He  would  like  the  money  then  and  there. 

Jack's  manner  with  the  dealer  was  even  more 
lordly  and  condescending  than  with  the  would-be 
buyer. 

"Want  a  check — when — now?  My  dear  sir! 
when  I  bought  that  Monet  was  there  anything  said 
about  my  paying  for  it  in  twenty-four  hours? 
To-morrow,  when  my  argosies  arrive  laden  with 
the  spoils  of  the  far  East,  but  not  now.  I  never 
pay  for  anything  immediately — it  would  injure 
my  credit.  Sit  down  and  let  me  offer  you  a  cigar 
— my  governor  imports  'em  and  so  you  can  be 
assured  they  are  good.  By  the  way — what's  be 
come  of  that  Ziem  I  saw  in  your  window  last 
week  ?  The  Metropolitan  ought  to  have  that  pict 
ure." 

The  one-eyed  dealer — Jack  was  right,  he  had 
but  one  eye — at  once  agreed  with  Jack  as  to  the 
proper  ultimate  destination  of  the  Ziem,  and 
under  the  influence  of  the  cigar  which  Jack  had 
insisted  on  lighting  for  him,  assisted  by  Jack's 
casual  mention  of  his  father — a  name  that  was 
known  to  be  good  for  half  a  million — and  encour 
aged — greatly  encouraged  indeed — by  an  aside 
from  Sam  that  the  painter  had  already  been  of 
fered  more  than  he  paid  for  it  by  a  man  worth 
millions — under  all  these  influences,  assistances, 
and  encouragements,  I  say,  the  one-eyed  dealer  so 
329 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

modified  his  demands  that  an  additional  twenty- 
four  hours  was  granted  Jack  in  which  to  settle  his 
account,  the  Monet  to  remain  in  his  possession. 

When  Sam  returned  from  this  second  bowing- 
out  his  language  was  more  temperate.  "You're  a 
Cracker-Jack,"  was  all  he  said,  and  closed  the  door 
behind  him. 

During  the  ten  days  that  followed,  Jack  gloated 
over  the  Monet  and  staved  off  his  various  creditors 
until  his  father's  semi-monthly  remittance  arrived. 
Whenever  the  owner  of  the  Monet  mounted  the 
stairs  by  appointment  and  pounded  at  Jack's  door, 
Jack  let  him  pound,  tiptoeing  about  his  room  un 
til  he  heard  the  anxious  dealer's  footsteps  echoing 
down  the  stairs  in  retreat. 

On  the  day  that  the  "governor's"  remittance  ar 
rived — it  came  on  the  fifteenth  and  the  first  of 
every  month — Sam  found  a  furniture  van  backed 
up  opposite  Jack's  studio  street  entrance.  The 
gravity  of  the  situation  instantly  became  apparent. 
The  dealer  had  lost  patience  and  had  sent  for  the 
picture;  the  van  told  the  story.  Had  he  not  been 
sure  of  getting  it  he  would  not  have  sent  the  van. 

Sam  went  up  three  steps  at  a  time  and  burst 
into  Jack's  studio.  He  found  its  owner  directing 
two  men  where  to  place  an  inlaid  cabinet.  It  was 
a  large  cabinet  of  ebony,  elaborately  carved  and 
decorated,  and  the  two  furniture  men — judging 
from  the  way  they  were  breathing — had  had  their 
hands  full  in  getting  it  up  the  three  flights  of 
330 


HIS  LAST  CENT 

stairs.  -  Jack  was  pushing  back  the  easels  and 
pictures  to  make  room  for  it  when  Sam  entered. 
His  first  thought  was  for  the  unpaid-for  picture. 

"Monet  gone,  Jack  ?"  he  asked,  glancing  around 
the  room  hurriedly  in  his  anxiety  to  find  it. 

"Yes — last  night.  He  came  and  took  it  away. 
Here,"  (this  to  the  two  men)  "shove  it  close  to  the 
wall,"  pointing  to  the  cabinet.  "There — now  go 
down  and  get  the  top,  and  look  out  you  don't  break 
those  little  drawers.  What's  the  matter  with  you, 
Samuel  ?  You  look  as  if  somebody  had  walked 
over  your  grave." 

"And  you  had  no  trouble  ?" 

"Trouble  ?  What  are  you  dilating  about,  Sam 
uel  ?  We  never  have  any  trouble  up  here." 

"Then  it's  because  I've  kept  him  quiet.  I've 
been  three  times  this  week  and  held  him  up — much 
as  I  could  do  to  keep  him  from  getting  out  a  war 
rant." 

"Who?" 

"Your  one-eyed  dealer,  as  you  call  him." 

"My  one-eyed  dealer  isn't  worrying,  Samuel. 
Look  at  this,"  and  he  pulled  out  a  receipted  bill. 
"His  name,  isn't  it  ?  'Received  in  full  payment — 
Six  hundred  dollars.'  Seems  odd,  Samuel,  doesn't 
it?" 

"Did  your  governor  send  the  money  ?" 

"Did  my  governor  send  the  money!  My  gov 
ernor  isn't  so  obliging.  Here — don't  stand  there 
with  your  eyes  hanging  out  on  your  cheeks;  look 
331 


THE   UNDER   DOG 

on  this — found  it  yesterday  at  Sighfor's.  Isn't  it 
a  stunner  ?  bottom  modern  except  the  feet,  but  the 
top  is  Sixteenth  Century.  See  the  way  the  tor 
toise-shell  is  worked  in — lots  of  secret  drawers, 
too,  all  through  it — going  to  keep  my  bills  in  one 
of  'em  and  lose  the  key.  What  are  you  staring  at, 
anyhow,  Sam?" 

"Well— but  Jack— I  don't  see " 

"Of  course  you  don't  see !  You  think  I  robbed 
a  bank  or  waylaid  your  Moneybags.  I  did — took 
twelve  hundred  dollars  out  of  his  clothes  in  a 
check  on  the  spot — wrote  it  right  there  at  that 
desk — for  the  Monet,  and  sent  it  home  to  his 
Palazzo  da  Avenue.  Then  I  took  his  dirty  check, 
indorsed  it  over  to  that  one-eyed  skinflint,  got  the 
balance  in  bills,  bought  the  cabinet  for  five  hun 
dred  and  eighty-two  dollars  cash — forgive  me, 
Samuel,  but  there  was  no  other  way — and  here  is 
just  eighteen  dollars  to  the  good" — and  he  pulled 
out  some  bank-notes — "or  was  before  I  gave  those 
two  poor  devils  a  dollar  apiece  for  carrying  up  this 
cabinet.  To-night,  Samuel — to-night — we  will 
dine  at  the  Waldorf." 


335 


Date  Due 


PRINTED  IN  U.S.A.  CAT.     NO.     24     161 


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